


unorphaned (in our northern lights)

by morningsound15



Series: times the raker (and i'll rack it up) [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: (kind of), Alternate Dimension, Alternate Season/Series 07, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Minor Violence, Parallel Universes, Pining, Time Travel, faith feels sorry for herself a lot basically, not necessarily in that order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-03-08 17:56:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 65,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13463505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morningsound15/pseuds/morningsound15
Summary: Faith doesn’t notice anything strange until the next morning, when they wake up in bed together. In another time. In another world. In a world where they’re married and living together and raising Buffy’s little sis and everyone’s walking around treating the situation like it’s fine and good and normal and not like things are about fifty shades from okay.They’re the only ones who notice anything is wrong; the only ones who can remember. Everything’s different and nothing makes sense and they’re the only ones who can see it.Oh yeah, and apparently none of the Scoobies know that they’re Slayers, either.So… This is gonna suck.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was originally going to publish this as one long one-shot, but it’s approaching 35,000 words right now and I’m only halfway done with the last chapter, so…
> 
> Also sorry to anyone waiting on other story updates. I’ve been working on this for a really long time and just could never quite get it out of my head.
> 
> Feel free to follow me on [ tumblr ](https://morningsound15.tumblr.com/).

____________________

If you had asked Faith a day ago what the rest of her week was going to look like, she’d probably have told you something like this:

Wake up in Buffy’s basement too late in the day for anyone to still be around. Eat some breakfast by herself. Stay out of the way of the Slayerettes. Work out for a few hours until B and the Scoobies and the brat come back from work or school or whereever it is they spend their days. Eat dinner by herself in the basement while the rest of them crowd around B’s dining room table. Go patrolling — either by herself or with a couple of the others, usually B or Peroxide Vamp, ‘cause the rest of them barely want to breathe the same _air_ as her much less partner up on a slaying assignment, and they _definitely_ don’t trust themselves to fight her off if she turns all Evil-Slayer again. Most of them won’t come with her on patrol, but that’s just fine by her. They’d only really slow her down, anyway. B is the only one who can _actually_ keep up with her.

(Even on days she isn’t scheduled to patrol she still goes out. It’s the only time she ever really has to get away from this house and these people and beat things up and work off the tense energy that’s been building inside of her ever since she got back to Sunnydale. So she goes out every night, regardless of what the schedule says. If it’s supposed to be her night off, and some of the others are scheduled to kick some demon ass that evening, she goes out anyway, and makes sure she stays on the other side of town from them. They don’t bother each other. She stays out of their way, they stay out of hers.)

(The others have stopped fighting her on it.)

After patrolling, she’ll take a quick shower, jerk one out if she isn’t feeling too shitty, go to bed, and then wake up and wash-rinse-repeat ad nauseam.

Not the best life, but hey, it beats prison. ( _Sometimes_ it beats prison.)

At least she can shower on her own, here. Least she doesn’t have guards with guns regulating when she wakes up and when she eats and when she goes outside and when she sleeps.

So. That’s a plus.

But it’s not a secret that she isn’t exactly _wanted_ in this cheery little part of California. Not a secret that the others view her as more of an annoyance than a help; a problem to deal with, not a potential asset.

And, fine; _whatever_. They don’t really want her around. _Fine_. She doesn’t want to be here, either. And if it had truly been up to her, she’d have skipped town the second Wes dropped her off. But with one big-bad-crisis averted in LA and the next apocalypse _certainly_ right around the corner, she doesn’t really have much of a choice _except_ to stay put.

(They want to keep an eye on her. That’s the big secret no one’s willing to talk about. That’s why they’re kind-of-sort-of insisting that she stay here, in Buffy’s basement, like some kind of feral dog no one trusts off its leash. It’s not because they actually _want_ her or feel like they actually _need_ her. Until they can figure out what to do with her, until they can figure out whether or not they can trust her out on her own without a 24/7 babysitter, until they can figure out whether or not they should ship her back to prison and risk getting Wesley into some serious legal shit for orchestrating her jail break, she figures she’s probably stuck here.)

It’s purgatory, but at least she can cook her own meals and at least she gets to kill some gnarly demons and at least she has her own bed and her own room and her own space. At least she can eat whenever she wants and at least she can wake up whenever she wants and at least she can shower whenever she wants and at least now she’s _next_ to the action, if not always directly involved. At least now she knows what’s going on. At least now she can stop worrying that the entire world is going to end while she sits behind bars, neutered and useless, several towns over.

So… purgatory, but not the worst.

She’s been in worse places than this. She’s sure she’ll be in worse places than this at some point in the future, too.

(If she’s being honest, she doesn’t even _blame_ them for not trusting her. Not really. If she were in their position she’s pretty sure she wouldn’t trust her, either. What with the murder and the torture and the being in prison, and all. Pretty reasonable contributing factors to the distrust.)

But she’s made her peace with it. Prison has the tendency to do that, you know. Gives you a lot of time to think; a lot of time to make peace with a lot of things.

So, they don’t trust her. Fine by her. She’ll sit in Buffy’s basement like a good pet, stay away from the neighbors, eat her meals on her own, avoid confrontation, abide by the laws of the land, keep away from the baby Potentials and the brat and the Scoobies, keep her head down, and beat the ever loving _shit_ out of any vamp she might happen to meet in a dark cemetery.

Because that’s what the Good Slayer does, right?

Stays out of trouble?

____________________

If you had asked Faith last night how patrolling had gone down, she probably would have told you it was five by five. A little annoying — no one likes getting clawed to hell — but nothing to write home about.

The night started off normal enough, regular and innocuous.

She goes out patrolling with B and they don’t exchange more words than is strictly necessary, which is par for the course, for them. Their arrangement is strictly of the ‘fight-demons-and-barely-tolerate-each-other’s-presence’ variety. You know, standard day in the office for a couple of Vampire Slayers who spend more time wishing each other dead than holding anything close to resembling a pleasant conversation.

Their patrol is just supposed to be business as usual. Fight the demon, slay the demon, walk home, go to bed without speaking to each other. Business as usual.

Except _this_ demon doesn’t go down as easy as some of the others.

They spot it for the first time lurking a little too close to the populated part of town for either of their liking. It’s huge, at least 7 feet tall, and built like a goddamn _linebacker_ , all bulky musculature and wide, broad shoulders. Its skin seems to undulate between shades of red, smooth and reptilian, and when it turns, its eyes gleam a dark onyx in the light of a lone street lamp.

Buffy and Faith exchange a look, their tactical skills coming to the fore without either of them needing to speak. (They’re good at this. They’ve _always_ been good at this.) Buffy nods, and Faith breaks right while Buffy flanks left.

They’re trying to sneak up on it (him?), but it (he?) must smell them, or hear the way their footsteps crunch on dead, dry leaves or something, because suddenly its (his? She’s gonna go with his) bright red skin ripples and glows a little brighter. And before Faith can blink, two-foot-long claws are shredding through rough skin, extending from what Faith _assumes_ are his hands (or whatever you might call the lumps of flesh at the end of the dangling arm-shaped appendages attached to his torso), and suddenly he’s taking off towards the woods.

She hears Buffy curse from somewhere off to the side as they both spring into action, sprinting off after his fleeing form, knives drawn and arms pumping as they weave and dart and sink into thick, looming trees that cast distended shadows over the ground, making Faith’s eyes water as her vision wavers precariously around the optical illusion. They hurtle through dark trees, clothing and skin catching on errant branches. The air is cool, and it burns a little in Faith’s lungs when she breathes too deeply, but she loves it. This is what she lives for.

The exhilarating rush of the hunt.

They catch up to him somewhere deep in the forest. Or, more accurately, he _lets_ them catch up, because despite the fact that he has a significant head start and a significant advantage in terms of speed, at some point he clearly must decide to turn around and face them down rather than continue to evade them, because about three hundred yards into the woods they come crashing through a clearing and there the beastie is. Eyes and claws glinting menacingly in the moonlight, shifting from side to side like a boxer at the beginning of a round.

Who knows why he stops; who knows why he decides to wait for them. Maybe they’ve tired him out. Maybe he’s just feeling particularly ballsy and/or arrogant this evening. Maybe he, like Faith, has the desperate urge to _attack fight kill_ thrumming just below the surface of his gnarled, wrinkly skin, and he’s decided he just can’t ignore the call anymore.

Faith, despite herself, grins at the opportunity. Her heart is already drumming in her chest and she’s a little out of breath from the chase, but she feels _good_. Warmed up. Ready. She loves a good challenge, loves a good fight, has been itching to get her hands _really_ dirty these past few weeks because all the fights she’s been in recently have just been with the standard vamps and your common, run-of-the-mill demons. Nothing like _this_ guy. This guy, with the swords-for-fingers, seems like More, seems like Stronger, seems like Deadly. A true Big Bad. She’s looking forward to the challenge.

On top of that, she and B never really get the chance to fight big guys together, anymore. They haven’t really since the early days, since high school, since Before Faith Went Evil. And they may not agree on anything; they may not really get along; the silences between them may be tense and the meals they share may be awkward as fuck, but they’re _damn_ good fighters, when you throw them into the fray together. They’ve always had this uncanny ability to read each other, to play off each other, to anticipate what the other is about to do. Better than almost anyone else.

So Faith’s excited for the fight — practically _keen_ for it, even — but still. He doesn’t go down easy.

And he fights _dirty_.

He’s faster than they anticipate. And maybe that’s down to their own arrogance, or maybe it’s Faith’s devil-may-care attitude, or maybe it’s Buffy’s somewhat-naïve reliance on her training, but he seems to always be half a step ahead of them, dodging their blows a split second before they land, maneuvering himself to block their usual tag-team tactics. He rotates, vacillates between them, placing his body in the _exact_ spot they don’t want him to be in. He moves too quickly, not letting them get him off-balance, not letting either of them slide into his blind spot, slipping out of traps and managing to avoid getting cornered with every dodge.

(Almost like he can tell what they’re about to do. Almost like he can _read_ them just a moment too soon.)

He fights dirty, and he’s fast, but Faith’s still feeling pretty confident about it all, because they’re _Slayers_ and they kill tougher guys than this before they finish their breakfast in the morning. He’s no worse than things they’ve faced before, no stronger, no faster, no more ruthless. They have such big fish to fry with Caleb and The First Evil and all the Potentials that _this_ guy is barely a blip on their radar. He’s just _one_ demon, one thing on its own in the middle of the woods facing off against two women literally _designed_ to kill him.

Should be a piece of cake.

So Faith’s feeling pretty confident about it all, all things considered. At least until Buffy missteps coming off of a fallen tree and he takes advantage of her stumbling lack of balance to lash out. And he gets her good, too. And Faith, distracted by Buffy’s pained cry, catches the pointy end of his claws on the back-swing.

She staggers and falls, clutching at her left arm, and he uses their wounds to his advantage, darting off into the night before either of them can clamber to their feet to try and stop him.

(Strange, that he doesn’t take the opportunity while they’re both down and injured to finish the job. Almost anyone else would have; almost any _thing_ else would have. You don’t just _pass up_ a chance to kill the thing that wants to kill you. _Faith_ certainly wouldn’t have hesitated, were their places reversed.)

(But she doesn’t have time to think about that now.)

Faith curses as she watches him disappear. She makes a move to go after him, but before she can do more than push off the ground Buffy groans, in what Faith assumes must be pretty _excruciating_ pain. She has to decide, then and there, whether or not she should go after him or check on Buffy and make sure she hasn’t, you know, _croaked_.

Were she four years younger, the choice would have been simple: demon first, Buffy second. Buffy is, after all, _more_ than capable of keeping herself alive for a few minutes while Faith hunts the thing that brought her down.

But Faith _isn’t_ four years younger, and this _isn’t_ a cut-and-dry case of _enemy or ally._ At the very least, if she leaves Buffy on her own and she really _does_ end up kicking the bucket, there’s nothing stopping the other Scoobies from chasing her out of town with pitchforks and torches in-hand.

So Faith grumbles about it, but she still turns around and slides toward Buffy’s prone figure on the muddy ground, her jeans almost certainly getting ruined in the process. Buffy looks a little pale, and she inhales sharply whenever she shifts, so Faith knows that she’s gotta be hurting pretty bad, even if she won’t admit it.

He’s taken a chunk out of her and B both, enough to leave a gashing scrape along Buffy’s right thigh and enough to leave Faith’s arm dangling uselessly at her side, dripping warm blood down her fingertips to pool against the moss beneath her knees.

Buffy grimaces and her face looks ashen and drawn but she lets Faith rip her over shirt to shreds, lets Faith tie a thick scrap around the oozing wound on her leg. Faith pulls the knot as tight as she can, because Buffy’s actually bleeding kind of _a lot,_ now that she’s really looking — like kind of a lot more than Faith first realized, and her skin is split _way_ too close to a major artery for Faith not to be a _little_ worried. (Though she would never say as much. Not out loud, at least.)

It’s more than enough to make her worry. So she watches Buffy with nervous hawk-eyes the entire way back to the Summers’ house (though she pretends that she doesn’t). When Buffy struggles to get to her feet, Faith hovers nearby, but because Buffy doesn’t reach out for an anchor, Faith doesn’t offer her help. When Buffy stumbles over uneven pavement, Faith has to bite the inside of her lip to a bloody pulp to stop from hoisting her into her arms completely.

It takes nearly thirty minutes of slow, painful trudging before Buffy finally (begrudgingly) allows Faith to slip an arm around her waist to help her stagger home. But she maintains that it’s _only_ for balance and stabilization. It _isn’t_ because her leg is buckling underneath her and it _isn’t_ because the shirt Faith hastily employed as a tourniquet is slowly turning crimson as Buffy’s blood seeps through the fabric, soaking it completely. Not at all. Just balance and stabilization.

(Buffy refuses to actually lean her weight on Faith. Whether it’s because she stubbornly thinks she doesn’t need to, or because she adamantly refuses to show even a _hint_ of weakness around the girl she claims is her most-of-the-time nemesis and only-occasionally-convenient ally, Faith can’t be sure.)

Willow bandages them up all nice and neat when they get back. Buffy shoots Faith a look that says, reluctantly, ‘ _Thanks for not letting me get killed, I guess.’_ Faith rolls her eyes but feels a little bit proud of herself, either way. (This whole ‘being a good guy’ thing is almost a little rewarding. And she kinda digs it. Having people _thank her_ for murdering things is certainly a change of pace. And it’s definitely not unwelcome. She might actually grow to _enjoy_ being a Good Slayer.)

(Though she’d never admit it.)

They go to sleep, and everything’s fine and nothing is weird. Sure, Faith has a pounding headache and feels a little woozy, but she’s _pretty sure_ that’s the blood loss and dehydration setting in, so she ignores it, doesn’t tell anyone that she’s feeling a little sick even though _Slayers aren’t really supposed to be able to get sick_ and goes straight to sleep.

Because even _with_ their injuries, and even _with_ the damage they take, it shouldn’t have been that weird of a patrol. Because even getting all bruised and bloodied up isn’t _much_ different from a standard day at the Slayer office. They get roughed up, cut up, go to sleep with tender bodies and sore muscles and heal over the course of a couple days. Going to bed injured and exhausted and a little light-headed isn’t exactly _unusual_ when most of your free time is spent fighting supernatural beings that are actively after your ass.

It’s not _uncommon_.

What Faith is trying to say is that, all things considered, it really shouldn’t have been a weird night. Everything _should_ have been _fine_.

____________________

But when Faith wakes up the next morning, _nothing_ is fine.

At first she can’t tell that anything’s different or unusual or out of the ordinary. She shifts around and mutters, feeling surprisingly and unexpectedly warm and comfortable and miraculously not-sore, considering the shit she went through the night before. Her head feels clear, her arm doesn’t twinge when she accidentally rolls onto it, and so she stretches, feeling for herself that her muscles are loose and not strained in the slightest.

She opens her eyes and it takes her a few seconds to realize where she is, a few seconds for her to actually process what she’s seeing in front of her, but when she does her heart pounds in her chest and it feels like she’s falling backwards through space and everything stops.

Because she isn’t in _her_ room, anymore. She’s in _Buffy’s_. In Buffy’s _bed_. In Buffy’s fucking _arms,_ for fuck’s sake.

She’s in Buffy’s bed and Buffy is snuggled up to her chest and breathing deeply, and Faith is tense and she doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do and she doesn’t _remember_ them getting super trashed or sleeping together the night before so what the fuck is she doing _in Buffy’s bed_?

Faith’s rigid body must be supremely uncomfortable to sleep against, because only moments after Faith freezes completely Buffy is shifting against her, muttering, and blinking her bleary eyes open.

Buffy’s gaze meets Faith’s and they both scream.

Buffy moves first, arms pushing out against Faith’s chest as she recoils backwards, but her feet are so tangled in the bed sheets that she ends up thrashing and falling to the floor with a loud and ungraceful _thump_ that can’t _possibly_ have felt very good.

Buffy’s staring at her, eyes wide and scared and mouth open, and Faith can’t even bring herself to _move_ but she knows she _should_ , knows she really oughta get her shit together and _say_ something, _anything_ , because all she’s doing right now is clutching some sheets to her chest and gaping with an open mouth and she knows that if she doesn’t move or say something soon Buffy’s going to assume—

“What are you doing in my _bed_?” Buffy hisses at her, and Faith winces almost accidentally.

She scrambles up and away from the bed, pulling her shirt lower on her body, recognizing in an instant that the clothes she’s wearing are most decidedly _not_ hers. It’s not like they’re anything particularly special — just a worn red t-shirt and baggy sweatpants from some college she’s never been to — but either way, she doesn’t usually sleep in _clothes_ so what the hell is she doing dressed like _this_ , lounging around in _Buffy’s bed_ in a set of pajamas she’s never even _owned_?

She gets stuck staring down at herself, at her own body, her hands frozen over the hem of her shirt like she doesn’t know whether to smooth it down or rip it from her body. It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense. She feels like she’s going crazy, like she’s losing her goddamn _mind_ because how did she get here and what is she doing here and why is she dressed like this and why can’t she remember and _this_ _doesn’t make any sense_.

“Faith!” Buffy practically growls, standing from the floor and stalking towards her. Faith’s head jerks up, her eyes feeling owlishly large. Buffy continues to advance and Faith takes a few stumbling steps backwards, clearly surprised, until her back thumps against a door (the bathroom door? probably) and then Buffy has a hand fisted in her shirt and her eyes are wild with fire and fury. “What are you doing in my _bed_?” she hisses again, the rough skin of her knuckles dragging against Faith’s collarbone in a menacing way that has to be purposeful (a reminder of knuckles and fists and hands wrapped around Faith’s throat and danger and a threat).

Faith can only gape at her, her usual quick-witted teasing tongue at a loss to explain.

What the hell is she _doing_ here?

“I don’t… I don’t know.” She looks down at herself again. “Why am I in your _clothes_?” she asks, because it’s the only thing her traitorous mind seems to be able to focus on. Like if she can just figure out this _one_ puzzle, the rest of it will fall into place in her mind and memory and she’ll actually be able to _understand_.

Buffy shakes her head. “Those aren’t mine,” she answers seriously.

“Then what the hell am I doing—?”

Buffy shakes her a little, enough where Faith’s shoulders briefly come away from the door before they’re knocked back into the wood again. Faith grunts and the impact, Buffy’s elbow digging uncomfortably into her sternum, and glowers. “Would you cool it with that?” She smacks Buffy’s arm away from her. “I’m _just_ as confused as you are, so can you maybe stop trying to kill me for five seconds so we can figure this out?” She pulls her shirt down again, straightening the fabric beneath her fingers. “We didn’t get hammered last night, did we? That’s usually the only time I wake up in unfamiliar beds.”

She means it as a joke, but the way Buffy’s staring at her, eyes blown wide with accusation, makes her think that maybe she oughta have kept good and quiet. “What did you to do me? Did you _drug_ me, or something?” Buffy asks, her face flushing red with barely-repressed anger.

Faith splutters with disbelief. “ _What_?” she exclaims, shaking her head violently. “ _No_. No of _course not_. What you think I… you think I could do something like that to you?”

Buffy’s jaw clenches in response to the venom in Faith’s words, from the way she spits them out, from the indignant rage boiling just under the surface of Faith’s skin. “ _No_ ,” Buffy snarls, her hand tightening into a fist where it hangs at her side. She looks like she desperately wants to hit something. Faith knows the feeling. She takes a step back and flexes her fingers. Looks away. “Of course I don’t think that.”

“Why would I _drug you_ , Buffy? You think _I_ know what’s going on here?”

“I mean _you’re_ the one who decided to climb into my bed in the middle of the night! But no, Faith, you’re right, it’s perfectly innocent behavior and not suspicious _at all_.” Buffy waves her hand for emphasis, her voice oozing sarcasm. There’s something glittering on one of her fingers, and it draws Faith’s eyes and just like that she can’t look away. “You definitely haven’t tried to kill me, like, fifty times. You’re right, I’m jumping to conclusions. _Excuse me_ for wanting to know _why_ the hell—”

“Are you wearing a wedding ring?” Faith asks, mouth suddenly dry, stomach sinking with a heavy feeling she can’t quite decipher.

Buffy blinks, startled. She looks down at her hand. She shakes her head once like she’s trying to understand. It takes about a half second before she suddenly flinches and retreats, holding her hand at arm’s length like it’s some poisonous snake about to bite her. “ _What_?” she breathes, panic quickly rising in her expression. “I’m not… I’m not _married_.”

Faith, out of sheer curiosity (and maybe a sinking sense of premonition) glances down at her own left hand.

“Oh shit.”

Buffy looks up at her.

“We’re wearing rings,” Faith practically whispers. “Why the _fuck_ are we wearing _rings_? What’s _happening_ , Buffy?”

“I don’t… I can’t… I don’t _know_.”

“Are we… is this…” For the first time since waking up, Faith takes a moment to look around the room, to _really_ look at everything in it.

It’s _all_ different. Not a _lot_ different — admittedly she hasn’t been in B’s room all that often, recently, so she can’t be 100% sure what it _usually_ looks like, and the way it looks now was enough to fool both of them into thinking nothing had changed — but this is definitely… this is _definitely_ different.

The bed’s bigger, for one. It’s fluffy, with a white comforter and too many pillows. (Jesus Christ are those _decorative_ _pillows_? Who the fuck has _decorative pillows_ on their fucking _bed_?) The walls are strangely lacking in the teenage-themed posters Faith expects to see. The furniture is nice, too. Dark painted wood that looks, honestly, more expensive than anything Faith’s ever purchased in her entire life. The carpet’s new; she can feel the plush bounce under the balls of her feet.

The walls don’t have posters on them, but they _do_ have pictures. Photographs, more specifically. Buffy and her mom, a solo pic of Joyce in black and white, a couple pics of B and Dawn, of the three Summers women all together, even a framed photo of Buffy, Xander, and Willow from graduation on top of the dresser. And then there’s…

“What the _fuck_?” Faith lunges for the bedside table, forcing Buffy to duck out of her way to avoid being tackled.

“What the _hell_ , Faith?” she splutters, indignant. But Faith ignores her, because she can’t stop staring at the picture in her hands. She can’t… she can’t believe it.

No, like she _literally_ cannot believe that this is happening. She must be… she must be dreaming. This must be a dream. This is all just some weird hallucination. She was drugged, or… or she got hit over the head. All she has to do is blink, all she has to do is wake up, and everything will be fine and then she won’t be—

“What are you looking at?” Buffy reaches over and snatches the picture from Faith’s limp hands.

It takes approximately two seconds for recognition to flood over her face, and after that there’s nothing left except shock and disbelief.

It’s a photo. Of the two of them. Wearing white dresses.

Smiling.

 _Kissing_.

Faith has to be dreaming.

She rubs at her eyes, slaps herself on the cheek twice, but to no avail. She doesn’t wake up. “I’m in Hell,” she says with a sort of rigid finality. “This is my Hell. Beastie Boy last night killed me and now I’ve died and I’m in Hell.”

“Well, you’re certainly dramatic,” Buffy mutters, but it’s reflex more than anything – like she’s hardwired to quip back even without thinking. She hasn’t looked up from the picture, yet.

“Shut up,” Faith snaps, closing her eyes tight and shaking her head violently from side to side. “Shut up. Stop talking. You aren’t real.” She pushes her fists against her eyes hard enough to see spots and keeps muttering again and again, “You aren’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t _real_.”

“Faith.”

“I’m dreaming, or this is some kind of curse, or I’ve been drugged and I’m hallucinating, or I’ve died and now I’m in Hell. That’s… that’s the only way for… for _this_.”

Buffy pulls Faith’s hands away from her face and glares at her. “You aren’t dead, and you aren’t in Hell. Believe me, if this were Hell I wouldn’t be this nice to you.”

Faith scoffs. “ _This_ is you being nice? Well my _stars_ , shoot me up and call me wooed, B.”

Buffy continues to glare. “You are _so_ not helping.”

“Oh like _you’re_ doing any better? Standing there glaring at me instead of coming up with an actual—”

A knock on the door. Buffy and Faith freeze, staring at each other with wide eyes.

‘ _What do we do?’_ Faith mouths at her, and Buffy shakes her head. She holds out a hand, signaling for Faith not to move.

Another knock, and a voice calls through the wood. “Buffy? Faith?”

“D-Dawn?” Buffy responds. Faith’s eyes are wide and panicked, and she shakes her head, trying to communicate: _Would you shut the fuck up, please? We don’t know what’s out there,_ without using her words. But if Buffy understands her anxious, fearful, silent communication, she ignores her.

Dawn pokes her head into the room, brow furrowed in confusion. “Are… you guys alright? I heard yelling.”

“We’re…” Buffy blinks at her sister, mouth moving wordlessly for a few moments. “Yeah, Dawnie,” she says lamely. “We’re fine.”

Dawn doesn’t look like she believes her. “Are you sure?” she asks, voice skeptical. “You’re acting all…” She grimaces and waves her hand from side-to-side. Faith takes that to mean: ‘ _Out of your fucking minds,’_ though she’s pretty sure she’s paraphrasing.

Buffy and Faith exchange a look. It’s a heavy look, loaded with things neither of them are able to express effectively with only their eyes. But Faith thinks that Buffy gets the gist.

_We don’t know what’s going on and nothing makes sense and we have to pretend, at least for now, that nothing is out of the ordinary. We have to pretend that everything’s fine, at least until we understand what the fuck is happening here and whether or not we’re in danger._

She thinks maybe Buffy only understands ‘ _pretend’,_ but it must be good enough.

Buffy takes the lead, again, answering her sister. “Yeah,” she says, “we’re… everything is fine.” God, Faith _really_ wishes she were better at lying. For a girl with a secret identity, she’s pretty garbage about keeping secrets. “And this isn’t what it looks like,” Buffy is quick to continue, gesturing to the empty space between the two Slayers. “Faith was just leaving.”

Dawn rolls her eyes. “I know she doesn’t have to go to work until nine, Buffy. You drive us both.” She looks at them then, and she pushes the door open a little wider, clearly surprised. “Why are you guys still in your pajamas? We’re gonna be late for school!”

Buffy and Faith can’t stop staring at her. She’s looking at them expectantly, like everything is _ordinary_ , like nothing is wrong. Like this _isn’t_ the _strangest situation_ a person could possibly stumble into. Like she _expected_ to walk in here this morning and see them in the same room, in the same bed, cohabitating like it’s no big deal. She’s acting normal, relaxed, calm, and trusting, like she suddenly _isn’t_ afraid that Faith might lash out and try to murder them both at any second.

“Um, we…” Buffy stares at her sister, blinking as she fails to comprehend everything about this situation. “We’re just…”

Dawn frowns, equal parts worried and confused. “Are you feeling okay?” she asks with more-than-mild concern. “You’re acting really weird and you look super pale.”

Buffy latches onto it like a lifeline. “No!” she half-shouts, eyes wide and slightly panicked. ( _Seriously_ , who taught this girl how to lie?) “No, actually, I think we’re sick. Yeah it… Faith was sick and then she got me sick so now we’re both sick so I… I think we’re just going to take the day off.” Buffy swallows. “You can get yourself to school, right?”

Dawn purses her lips, eyes narrowed and eyebrow arched. “Can I take the car?”

“Can you…” Buffy blinks very quickly. “Yeah you can… yeah you can take the car.”

(All Faith can think is, _Since when can Dawn **drive**?_ )

Dawn squeals and bounces on the balls of her feet. “Thank you thank you thank you!” She hurries forward and kisses Buffy on the cheek once, and then — to both Buffy and Faith’s utter horror — rushes over and kisses _Faith_ on the cheek, too. “Even if this is just a bad excuse for you guys to stay in bed and have sex all day—” Dawn says, words rapid and excited and rushed— “which, _gross_ , by the way — I don’t even care!” She runs back to the door and shoots them both a wink over her shoulder. “ _‘Feel better’_ you two!” And Faith can _feel_ the sarcasm in those words, even from here, but she’s too busy spluttering to respond.

Dawn scurries off down the stairs, and Faith can hear the sound of jangling keys and her happy whistling all the way through the house.

She stands there, motionless, staring at Buffy’s closed bedroom door, unsure of what to say or think or do. She just… it doesn’t make _sense_. This is all _so much_.

What the fuck is _happening_ , here?

The sound of the front door slamming finally rouses them from whatever stupor they’ve fallen into. “We… what the _fuck_?” Faith hisses.

Buffy sits down heavily on the bed. Faith thinks it’s to stop herself from fainting.

 

 

Faith’s knees are shaking. That’s the first thing she becomes consciously aware of. Her knees are shaking.

Her knees are shaking, and rather than run the risk of letting Buffy see her in any state that might even come close to being considered weak, Faith crosses the bedroom floor as quickly as she can confidently manage and sinks down next to Buffy on the bed.

She stares down at the floor with eyes that don’t seem to want to focus on anything. So much information is circling through her brain so quickly that she feels nauseous, like the room might be spinning, like she might have had a few too many last night and now her hangover is kicking her in the ass.

But she didn’t have anything to drink last night. She’s sober as a judge. So, there’s _that_ theory out the damn window.

Buffy launches herself so suddenly from the bed that Faith jumps where she sits. She shakes her head to clear some of her vision and watches with utter perplexity as Buffy practically sprints toward the full-length mirror attached to the back of her bedroom door.

She starts running her eyes over every part of her body, pushing her hair to the side to examine her neck, running fingers down the length of her arm and pausing over the crease of her elbow, pushing her sweatpants down past her thighs with a kind of clinical severity that feels more than a little cold. (And Faith absolutely does _not_ blush at the sight of Buffy in only a loose shirt and her underwear. No, she does not blush. She might turn away, might avert her eyes politely, but that’s only because she knows that if she doesn’t, Buffy’s going to call her a fucking perv for ogling her or some shit when this whole situation isn’t even Faith’s _fault_ to begin with.)

“Think now’s an appropriate time to check yourself out, Buff?” Faith calls, embracing the familiar taunts and jibes with unexpected relief. It feels good to know something; to feel _confident_ in something, even if the only thing she really knows for certain right now is that she has an incredible knack for riling up Little Miss Tightly Wound.

Buffy’s reflection glares at her. “I’m checking for _wounds_ ,” she says, as if Faith didn’t know that already, as if Faith is some kind of bumbling moron who doesn’t understand that the first thing you do after a serious battle is size up your own damage. Buffy turns her attention back to her own reflection. “Maybe something bit us,” she murmurs, mostly to herself, “or someone attacked us and we got magicked up or… or drugged or something.” Something falls into place in Buffy’s expression, like she finally just solved some algebra equation that’s been bothering her since the tenth grade, and she whirls on Faith, stalking towards where she still sits on the bed.

Faith fights against the urge to scramble up and away, instead keeping her expression neutral and her body completely still. (Her heart rate jumps, and she really hopes Buffy can’t hear it.)

“Did you do something to me?” Buffy hisses, low and menacing. “Drug me or… or _seduce_ me, or—”

“Oh sure, that’s classic.” Faith scoffs, rolling her eyes. She brushes by her, taking care to knock Buffy’s shoulder with her own, and approaches the mirror for herself. She uses the opportunity to scan her body for puncture marks, bites, or other markings. “When things get weird and we wake up in an alternate universe-slash-Hell dimension, blame the ex-con. Very PC, B.”

“Oh, did I hurt your _feelings_?” Buffy sneers. With Faith’s gaze firmly trained on the mirror, she can pretend she doesn’t notice the expression. “Because the way I remember it, it was only a few years ago that you did some voodoo magic on us and we ended up swapping bodies. How do I know you didn’t do that again, but with, like… universes?”

“I thought we already went over this. I didn’t _drug you,_ Buffy. Besides, do I _look_ any happier to be here than you do?” Faith asks, lifting her shirt to check the status of her ribs (she’s pretty sure she cracked a couple fighting that red asshole last night), but a quick skim of her fingers tells her that they’re completely unharmed and unblemished. But then she pauses, momentarily, because her stomach doesn’t _look_ quite right. There’s something wrong about her skin, something she can’t quite put a finger on.

Faith’s frown deepens as she does a quick mental check of past injuries. Skin’s still the same color, abs still rock hard and lookin’ great, bellybutton unchanged… She shakes her head and lowers her shirt again. “Besides,” she continues, glancing up in time to catch Buffy’s glassy-eyed expression. (It’s confusing, and she doesn’t understand why Buffy is looking at her like _that_ — unless maybe they both got hit on the head last night and she’s now recovering from a concussion?) “I thought we’d covered the fact that I’ve reformed when I moved in with you and the Slayerettes.”

Buffy crosses her arms over her chest. “Reformed or not, I don’t exactly trust you in a bind.”

Faith sighs and turns to face her fully. “Well, it looks like you’re gonna have to get over that, because it looks like I’m the only other asshole here who knows anything’s up.”

Something _still_ doesn’t feel right with her stomach. She runs a hand absentmindedly over the front of her shirt, palm drifting almost instinctively to cover her side, right over the spot where Buffy stabbed her all those years ago. It still hurts her, every once in a while, twinging like some kind of annoying reminder that she almost bit it when she was just seventeen. All because she was angry and a fucking idiot and because Buffy had a jealous streak that ran deep and a superiority complex that was really only rivaled by her undead boyfriend’s. Every once in a while, when she’s wracked by a particularly nasty bout of self-pity, or when she wakes up from thrashing nightmares in a cold, sickly sweat, or when she stares at Buffy for just a moment too long, or when it rains particularly hard, her old wound will tingle and smart, will stab and ache. And it might be a little demented, but she finds a strange sort of comfort in the predictability of it, in the way certain things are always sure to trigger a spasm.

Faith presses lightly, feeling around for the familiar edges of her scar, searching for… something. Maybe a quick press of her fingers will trigger a jolt of pain that will spark some idea within her. Maybe if Buffy sees her hand ghosting over the spot she’ll think that it still hurts, and she’ll get that (kind of adorable) pained, guilty look on her face. Yeah, Faith would like that. Anything to get rid of the smarmy animosity she’s currently projecting.

She runs her fingers over the fabric of her shirt, pressing lightly against the tender spot that still smarts, occasionally, but nothing happens. She frowns and presses a little harder, but still, nothing happens.

It doesn’t hurt. There’s nothing there.

Her eyes bulge with understanding and she immediately spins on her heel, reaching down and pulling her shirt off and over her head so fast that she feels some of the seams tear.

“What the hell, Faith?” Buffy asks, indignant (probably because for once Faith’s damn attention isn’t on her), but Faith doesn’t answer. She takes two steps towards the mirror, her fingers hovering above her side, almost like she’s too afraid to touch the skin directly, almost like she’s worried that if she makes direct contact, she’ll contract some sort of deadly disease.

There’s no scar. There’s _nothing_ there. Her stomach is clean, her skin perfect and almost completely un-marred. Her most devastating injury, the most striking reminder of the path she had almost been led down, of the life she had almost lived, of the murders she had almost committed and the destruction she had almost caused… the painful reminder of _shame_ and _humiliation_ and _anguish_ and _betrayal_ and _loss_ is just…

It’s _gone_.

Behind her, Faith is pretty sure that Buffy isn’t breathing.

She’s pretty sure Buffy’s realized, too.

 _Her scar is gone_.

____________________

They change before they leave the master bedroom. There are a lot of reasons for getting dressed, including: gives them something to do; gives them a task to complete; can’t exactly fight your way out of a Hell dimension if you’re wearing pajamas, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

So they change. It’s awkward, and definitely a little weird, and both of them seem _very_ determined to avoid the other’s gaze (which is _also_ weird because it’s not like B’s got something Faith hasn’t seen before, or whatever) but Faith sucks it up and deals with it because she’s just spent three years in _jail_ so, _really,_ could be a lot worse. But because none of the clothes they have to choose from are things they even _remotely_ remember buying (and because it looks like they _share a wardrobe_? Which… _gross_ ) they both just… grab whatever’s closest and in their size.

So: combat boots, black jeans, black turtleneck, red leather jacket for Faith; ankle boots, long skirt, tank top, black leather jacket for Buffy.

The leather jacket Buffy finally pulls over her shoulders looks just a hair too big for her — too wide at the shoulders and too long in the arms — and Faith _almost_ wants to say something, almost _does_ say something. Because, if she’s not mistaken, that’s _her_ leather jacket Buffy is currently sinking into (or at least… it belongs to some version of her that may or may not be suffering from amnesia and/or an aneurism and also may or may not even be _real_ ). But then she figures… they have bigger fish to fry today and starting off by making Buffy sulky and self-conscious about her outfit choice is _really_ not productive for _anyone_. Faith knows, maybe better than anyone else, that if you want B to focus on the task at hand you can’t have her second-guessing if her shoes are sensible-or-just-fashionable or whether or not her top, _like, totally clashes with her skirt_.

Best not to antagonize her.

(Always so damn defensive about her damn outfits.)

When they finally do leave the bedroom and start to pick their way carefully through the familiar-yet-unfamiliar house, it’s… weird. Faith lets Buffy take the lead, trails after her as she makes her way through the house examining rooms, noticing minute differences in layout, décor, lighting, appliances, furniture. No room is the same as the way they left it. Everything is just a little bit _different_ , a little _off_ , a little _wrong._

There’s a TV in the family room that’s bigger and nicer than anything Faith’s ever been able to afford, and she’s _pretty_ sure B would _never_ have agreed to something quite so lavish and unnecessary in her own house. The plates and bowls in the kitchen are all a different pattern than the ones they’re used to. Picture frames are in different locations, there are throw pillows on beds and chairs and couches (seriously, _throw pillows_ ; talk about unnecessary) and a pretty astounding weapons collection in the room that _used_ to be the upstairs linen closet. Faith whistles lowly when Buffy yanks the doors to the room open, and though she _knows_ it must be an unpleasant surprise for Buffy to realize that her entire house has been rearranged without her knowledge, Faith catches the longing look in her eye when Buffy sees the gleaming battle axe hanging in the top row. (Buffy’s always had a weakness for axes. Faith, on the other hand, has always favored knives.)

She follows behind without saying a word, just lets Buffy tensely pace through her own house and riffle through her own drawers, pick up and throw down items of clothing she doesn’t remember purchasing, pass her eyes over photographs she doesn’t remember taking.

It’s only when they get to the kitchen, when she’s watching Buffy pull food from the fridge and turn it over and over in her hands (like she’s never seen a damn bottle of ketchup before, or something), that Faith finally feels the urge to speak. “This isn’t me,” she says quietly. “Or like… _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_ , or whatever it is you’re thinking.” A pause. Buffy doesn’t look up from her task of counting bananas. “I didn’t _do this_ , Buffy.”

Buffy shakes her head, moving over to peek at dishtowels. “You don’t know what I’m thinking.”

Faith leans against the doorframe, crossing her arms over her chest. “Au contraire, B. You forget we’re two sides of this coin.” She taps on her temple and winks when Buffy glances up at her. “Psychically linked by Slayer magic, and all that.”

Buffy scowls and puts down the towels, sweeping past Faith as she makes her way into the living room. “That doesn’t mean you can _read my mind_ , Faith,” she shoots over her shoulder.

“No, you’re right. I can read your mind because I know you so well.” She grins a wide, wolfish grin that has Buffy huffing with indignation as she stalks around the room, glaring at the couches and chairs and floor lamp as if they’ve done something to personally insult her.

“You know, I liked you better when you were moping in my basement and not shooting off at the mouth every twenty seconds.”

“Oh, _more_ than every twenty seconds, B.”

Buffy rounds on her, nostrils flaring, and Faith worries that she may have taken things just a step too far. She doesn’t let Buffy see the flash of insecurity she feels jolt through her stomach. She just clenches her jaw tight. “There you go again,” Buffy growls. “Will you _stop_ cracking jokes about this? This is _serious_ , Faith.”

Faith rolls her eyes. “I _know_ this is serious, Buffy,” she says, sinking down onto the empty couch, slouching her body and kicking her feet up onto the table in front of her because she _knows_ it’s going to get on Buffy’s nerves that her dirty boots are scuffing up the nice wood. “But I have a tendency to use humor to deflect and mask my true feelings. I employ sarcasm in conflict situations in order to manage my attachment issues and fear of abandonment.” Buffy stares at her, blinking instead of saying anything. Faith shrugs. “They taught me that in group therapy. Seems prison was good for _something_ , I guess.”

“Yeah, well…” Buffy clears her throat, shifting awkwardly where she stands. Her anger seems to have left her as quickly as it arrived, leaving her deflated (and maybe a little sheepish). “Good. As long as you know.”

Faith watches her pace, watches her duck into the bathroom, inspect plates and silverware in the dining room. Faith watches her as she disappears into the basement and waits quietly for Buffy to finish with this apparently _overwhelming_ need to scrutinize and check every corner of her house, every new rug and misplaced trinket. She watches as, minutes later, Buffy emerges from the dark space, shaking her head like she can’t believe what she’s seen.

She makes eye contact with Faith, almost by accident, and freezes with one foot on the floor and the other on the stairs behind her. Almost like she’d forgotten Faith was there.

She flushes.

Faith decides to ignore it.

“You sure this isn’t some weird shared Slayer dream?” Faith asks as Buffy makes her way across the room. Buffy stops next to one of the arm chairs. Picks at the fabric. “You’ve had those before, right? With the First Slayer?”

Buffy looks at her strangely. “How do you know about that?”

“I pay attention.”

Buffy shakes her head. “This isn’t that. This is _way_ too real to be a dream.”

Faith hums, low in her throat. “Yeah. It _definitely_ feels real.”

“We have to be careful,” Buffy says quietly, almost to herself, almost as an after thought. “We don’t know what this place is or if we’re in a parallel time-line or a Hell dimension or if this is some kind of spell or… or something. We have to be careful.” Buffy continues to pick at the back of the chair, worrying her lip between her teeth. “I think I should call Willow.”

Faith quirks her head. “Is that a good idea? What happened to being careful?” She’s not trying to be difficult or confrontational. Not really, at least. She knows that Buffy is the de-facto leader, here (and everywhere, really). If she decides they should call Big Red and ask for her help, _obviously_ they’re going to do it. Because Buffy’s word is basically law, and even if that’s annoying as hell, Faith figures that it’s almost always easier to just go along with whatever she says. If for no other reason than that they’ll get everything done a hell of a lot faster, that way.

But she’s not sure it’s a _great_ idea, all things considered, so… might as well let Buffy know what she’s feeling.

Buffy shrugs. “She’s a witch. She has magic. She could help us figure this out.”

“No, I mean I understand why you _want_ to. But like… do we know if the people here are actually our friends?” Buffy shoots her a look. Faith rolls her eyes. “Sorry, _your_ friends?”

“I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

“Is Red _actually_ Red or is she someone… some _thing_ , else?”

“You don’t trust my friends.”

Faith shrugs. “I don’t _know_ your friends. But as a general rule, yeah, I don’t really trust _anyone_. And we just woke up in a wack ass world that doesn’t really make any _sense,_ so I just think…” She trails off and cracks her knuckles, just for something to do with her hands. “I just think we should be careful about all of this. We don’t know where we are or what’s happened to us, if we’ve swapped bodies or if someone’s shoved us into some awful alternate reality or if we’ve been cursed or if everyone else is under some sort of spell. I just don’t think we should be running off into the world right away. Not until we know for certain.”

Buffy sighs heavily. “We can’t know _anything_ for certain,” she says, “not unless we go looking. And we have to try _something_ , right? We can’t just… can’t just sit around here and wait to see if everything goes back to normal in the next few hours.”

Faith sits back, slumping further into the cushions. “No, I agree we should do _something_. Just… maybe we should wait before we call in the Scooby gang.”

“They’re my _best friends_ , Faith,” Buffy says, voice low and almost like a warning.

Faith’s jaw twitches. “ _God_ , you’re annoying. I _know_ they’re your best friends, Buffy. I’m not trying to take them away from you. I’m just saying, we should be smart about this. Think about the situation and what we know about it before we open our mouths and accidentally get ourselves committed for the next ten to fifteen years for talking about spells and magic and Hell dimensions in a world that doesn’t _have those things_. Which, again, this world _could_ have none of those things. Point is we don’t know.”

Buffy’s fingers flex at her side. Faith understands the sentiment, understands the restless itch to fight, to get out there and actually _do something_ about all of this. That latent craving thrums through both of them so deeply, so _relentlessly_ , that it’s sometimes almost impossible to sit still. And there’s nothing Faith hates more than talking through a situation and being rational about things, not when there are fights to fight and demons to slay. She’s always been of the _punch-first-ask-questions-later_ mentality. So, _really_ , she gets it.

But there’s something about this situation that feels different; bigger, almost. Like maybe going around punching people is the exact _opposite_ of what they should be doing. Like maybe yelling and arguing and jumping to conclusions is something that could get them both _killed_ , here.

So Faith may not like sitting still, may not like logistical planning and talking around an issue rather than solving matters with her fists, but if there’s one thing she’s learned in her 21-years of living and fighting, it’s how to survive; how to stay alive. And if _this_ shit keeps her alive — this cautious approach to decision-making — she’s going to do it. Even if it goes against every part of her nature.

Besides, they _literally_ know nothing. Like, Faith’s pretty sure she’s never been in a situation like this before, a situation where she legitimately doesn’t even know where to begin. Could it hurt them to just… _talk_ about the nothing they know for a little bit? See if they can’t bullshit their way into some kind of plan? (Buffy’s great at plans. She’ll think of something.)

Buffy sighs and sits down on the armrest of the chair she’s been fussing with. She looks reluctant, but Faith is pretty sure she made the right call about this one, so Buffy can’t complain to her even if she wants to. “Alright,” she says begrudgingly, “let’s talk this through.”

Faith nods and sits forward on the couch, bringing her elbows to rest against her knees. “So… we definitely know we aren’t in a dream, then.” Buffy nods. “So… probably some kind of magic. A spell, or a demon curse, or something.”

“Or poison, or some kind of drug.”

Faith frowns. “Poison and drugs are very human, Buff. I don’t know about you, but this all feels… _supernatural_ , to me. Like some demon or creepy crawly or spell-gone-wrong. I don’t think poison or drugs make sense.”

“Well _I_ don’t think we can totally rule out that something human — or _mostly-human_ — did this.”

This annoys Faith, but she figures this fight is probably not one that’s worth her energy. If Buffy wants to chase false leads, Faith isn’t going to be the one to stop her. “Fine,” she says, fighting an eye roll, “it could also be poison, or maybe a drug. Point is, we don’t know who or what caused this, but we _do_ know that it was neither of us, meaning that we’re probably the only people we can trust completely. At least for now.” At Buffy’s skeptical look Faith finally _does_ roll her eyes. “Oh will you _lay off_ the self-righteous injured teenager act, already? I don’t like this anymore than you do, and you _know_ we’ve both got beef, but why don’t we just call a truce for a couple of hours until we can get our heads around this thing, alright? Won’t do any good to constantly be at each others’ throats.”

Buffy crosses her arms over her chest.

Faith sighs heavily. “ _Buffy_. C’mon.”

Buffy clenches her hands tightly into fists for a few seconds before she slumps, drops her arms, and grimaces. “Alright, fine. Truce.”

“Thank you.” It’s quiet for several long moments. Faith runs a hand over her face and tries to breathe evenly. She’s already exhausted. Spending this much time with Buffy is so _exhausting._ Everything is always such a goddamn _fight_ with her. She isn’t willing to give a single inch on any position. Faith’s not sure if it’s the stick up her ass or the type-A personality that makes her completely incapable of being wrong and/or relinquishing control, but either way it’s annoying as _fuck_.

But they don’t have time for a fight. Not right now. And Faith knows this. So she switches topics. “You think this might have anything to do with tall dark and ugly from last night?” she asks. “He _did_ nick both of us, and we didn’t exactly manage any slayage at the end of it.”

Buffy slowly lowers herself from the armrest to the body of the armchair, brows furrowed in measured thought. “I think…” She pauses. Tilts her head. “I don’t think we can rule it out.”

Faith nods. “So, we should probably try and figure out what kind of creepy crawly can manage something like this, right? See if our guy had anything to do with it?”

Buffy nods slowly, almost reluctantly, like she doesn’t want to have to agree with Faith on anything. “Not a bad idea,” she finally says.

A moment of silence. “Means we’ve probably gotta call G, right?”

“Yeah. We should.”

“Think we can trust him?”

“Probably not. But he’s a safer bet than Willow. Odds are he’ll be able to tell us what’s going on.” A pause. “And, I mean… do we really have any other choice?”

They really, _really_ don’t.

So Faith may not like it, but what other choice do they have, really?

____________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [ tumblr ](https://morningsound15.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buffy snorts loudly. “They hired her to work with _children?_ Are they _psychotic?_ ”
> 
> Faith rolls her eyes. “Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence, B.”
> 
> “You were arrested for murder.”
> 
> “Murder two, twenty-five to life,” she shoots back with practiced ease. “But who’s counting?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m trying to update this regularly since I have most of it written, but knowing me that probably won’t happen. Anyway here’s Chapter 2.

____________________

They decide not to call. For one, neither of them has any idea what Giles’ phone number is, not here in this maybe-fake-maybe-demon-world, and for two, Buffy figures it’ll probably be easier if they just show up at his front door so they can explain everything together, in person. So they don’t have to work over the phone. So he can look both of them in the eye and know that they aren’t pulling a fast one on him when they tell him that they’re _pretty_ sure they’re from another dimension.

Faith isn’t sure it’s the _best_ plan, as far as these things go, but G is _Buffy’s_ Watcher, not hers. And Buffy is the leader, not her. So, _whatever_. Buffy thinks it’s a good plan, so it’s the plan they’re gonna stick to.

(What she means is that she goes along with it without a fight.)

“Good to know Giles still lives in the same place,” Faith remarks dryly as they approach the front door of his familiar apartment. Giles is clearly visible through the front window, bent low over a stack of books, his glasses pushed up high on the bridge of his nose as his pen scratches against a yellow legal pad. Faith tilts her head and narrows her eyes. “He look older, to you?” she asks out of the side of her mouth.

Buffy waves her away. “Not now, Faith.”

Faith rolls her eyes (but she makes sure Buffy’s back is to her before she does it, because she’s not looking to get slugged today, thanks) and trudges behind the other woman towards the stoop.

Buffy holds still for just a moment at the threshold of Giles’ door. Faith sees her shoulders rise and fall, like she’s taking a deep, steadying breath.

(Faith can feel her. She tries not to. Ever since all that shit went down between them four years ago, Faith has been working as hard as she possibly can to suppress their Slayer connection, to varying degrees of success. But she can’t shake it completely. She’s never been able to shake it completely. She can feel the energy thrumming through Buffy, the nervous unease that’s making her heart pound and her pulse race. She can feel that anxious pressure between her shoulder blades that means Buffy is dying for a fight, for some kind of way to release the tension. She can feel the desperate, aching need — all the way down to Buffy’s bones — to just _run away_. She can feel it so clearly that it’s hard to distinguish between Buffy’s emotional turmoil and Faith’s own almost-constant desire to pound something into a bloody pulp.)

(She knows how hard Buffy works to hide her feelings, to hide her emotions, to stay strong in the face of adversity. She _knows_. Even if Buffy tries to pretend that it isn’t the case, that she’s a stately and calm bastion of hope and leadership and dedication 24/7. But Faith knows, because Buffy’s never been able to hide anything from her. Not really.)

Buffy raps four times on the door, in measured succession. _Knock knock knock knock._

Giles pulls the door open, his eyes widening upon seeing them. “Buffy!” he exclaims. “Well, this is certainly a surprise.”

He’s smiling, but Buffy isn’t. Faith, for her part, tries to form an expression at least close to something polite. She’s not sure she manages.

Buffy grimaces when she says, “Giles. We need to talk to you.”

____________________

Giles sits on his couch, his glasses abandoned on the kitchen counter, fingers pressed against the space between his eyes as if he’s trying to ward off a mounting headache.

Buffy and Faith stand about as far apart as they can without making Giles turn his head while addressing them together. Faith is half-perched on a window ledge, her legs crossed at the knee and her arms folded over her chest. Buffy alternates between shooting furtive glances at Giles and fiddling not-so-subtly with the decorative ornaments on the mantle above the fireplace. Faith wants to snap at her to stay still (to keep her hands to herself and stop fidgeting because it’s driving her up the fucking _wall_ ) but she bites her tongue instead.

Finally, after what feels like ten full minutes of silence (but which is probably closer to 2), Giles clears his throat and raises his head. Buffy drops the clock she had picked up and Faith uncrosses her arms.

He clears his throat again. “Well,” he says slowly, “I must say, this is quite… unexpected.”

Buffy nods. “We don’t know what to do about it.”

“And… you’re quite sure? That you’re both from… another dimension?”

Buffy and Faith exchange a look. “We don’t know, exactly,” Buffy says, shifting where she stands. “It could be another dimension, or another timeline, or a spell or poison or a curse or we could be having the same weirdly specific shared dream. We just know that… whatever this is, wherever we are… it’s wrong.”

“Wrong, yes. Yes, you’ve explained.” He looks between the two of them, noting the cavernous space they’ve left between their bodies. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry. You must both be very confused.” He rubs at his eyes again, and Faith was right, before: he looks both older and more exhausted than she thinks she’s ever seen him. “And it isn’t as if I don’t trust you, Buffy. Nor you, Faith; you know you both have my implicit confidence.” Faith forces a cough to hide the fact that her jaw has dropped open. Buffy blinks at Giles with an expression akin to horror. But if he notices their reactions, he doesn’t comment on them. “It’s just very hard to comprehend,” he says instead.

“For us too, G,” Faith responds, interjecting her first real sentence of the afternoon. (She’s let Buffy handle the whole ‘explanation’ thing because usually it’s just easier to let Buffy take the lead on things like this. And Giles _is_ her Watcher, after all. Not Faith’s.)

Giles sighs again. He stands to grab his glasses. When they’re back tucked behind his ears he blinks a few times, grabs a pad of paper and a pen, and moves to his desk. “Alright. So.” He lets his hand hover, like he’s preparing himself for a long session of diligent note-taking. “Start from the beginning. Tell me everything you remember from last night, from the past week. Everything memorable, every new enemy, every injury and demon. And, of course, everything you remember from this morning.”

Faith sighs.

It’s going to be a long afternoon.

____________________

It’s a long afternoon.

They do their best to recall every bit of their lives from the past two weeks, but in between stilted, awkward explanations of their foreign, alien lives ( _Sorry, you’re saying Faith is currently living in your **basement** , Buffy? Why on **Earth** —_) and trying to pry information out of him, too, it’s… slow-going.

Eventually, once he gets the gist of it all, and once his baffled, blinking expression has calmed into something more recognizably normal, Buffy takes it as an unspoken cue to start gently probing him for more concrete details.

“How old are we, here?” she asks about fifteen minutes into their conversation, once it becomes _very_ obvious that their timelines aren’t matching up the way they should. “The same age, or—?”

“How old are you where you come from?”

Faith tries to catch Buffy’s eyes, but Buffy won’t look at her. “Twenty-three,” she says with a straight face. “Faith just turned twenty-one a few months ago.”

Giles clears his throat and straightens his glasses. “Well, that’s… yes, that’s not…” He shakes his head. “You’re twenty-eight—” he says to Buffy— “and Faith is twenty-six, when last I checked.”

Faith can hear Buffy swallow thickly from all the way across the room. She feels a little light-headed, like her ears are ringing, like something just wacked her over the head and she’s still trying to recover. It’s not… it _can’t_ be…

“Five years?” Buffy asks, voice heavy and throat scratchy. “We missed _five years_?” Faith thinks she would have expressed an equal measure of disbelief, if she were able to express anything at all.

(Mostly, she just feels _numb_.)

“To be frank,” Giles says carefully, “from what you’ve told me, I don’t think you’ve actually _missed_ any time. This doesn’t appear to be your universe. I’d say it’s much more likely that you’ve both, somehow, transported into this dimension. But for what reason, I’m not entirely sure.”

Buffy stares at her hands blankly. Now that Faith is looking at her — _actually_ taking the time to examine her closely, with clear scrutiny, because this is the first time she’s really given herself permission to do so — she can tell that B’s got a couple more years under her belt than she probably should. She looks different, but not so different that Faith could notice it at first. Her hair is a little shorter and a little neater than what Faith remembers from only a day before, her hands a little rougher, and she’s got these lines right around the corners of her eyes that almost look like laugh lines, or maybe the beginning stages of wrinkles. She doesn’t look _old_ (she’s still smokin’ hot as far as Faith is concerned), but she’s definitely not _twenty,_ anymore.

Faith wonders why she hadn’t noticed it sooner.

“Dawn’s twenty-one?” Buffy asks then, voice still unbelievably soft.

 _God_. The kid’s _21_. She’s as old as Faith is — as old as Faith _was_ , rather. (It’s hard to know which tense she should be using. She and Buffy went to sleep last night and woke up five years in the future and Faith’s _body_ may be 26, here, but as far as she’s concerned she’s only just barely passed into legal drinking age and this is all… it’s just a lot to process.)

 _Jesus_. When the kid was talking about being late for school this morning she meant _college_. She’s in _college_.

Giles, at least, seems sympathetic to Buffy’s ongoing emotional crisis. “You’ve done a very good job with her,” he says quietly, laying a comforting hand on Buffy’s shoulder. His eyes flick up to catch Faith’s careful, steadfast expression. “You both have.”

Buffy inhales sharply and Faith clenches her jaw, the ring on her left hand suddenly so noticeable and heavy that she has to fight the urge to rip it from her finger and fling it across the room.

Buffy glances quickly at Faith before broaching the topic they’ve both been so desperate to avoid. “So… we’re _married_? Like actually, honest-to-God, ‘I now pronounce you wife and wife’ type married?”

“Yes, that is what I said.”

Faith _really_ wishes her heart rate would slow its hammering pace. It’s distracting as hell. “But… but _how_? I mean, we kind of…” She stares at Buffy and shakes her head. “Don’t we _hate_ each other?”

Giles raises a hand to fiddle with his glasses. “Not—not here, no.”

Buffy stares at him helplessly. Faith asks another question, because it doesn’t look like Buffy will be able to any time soon, and the more they know about this dimension the better, in her opinion. “And… jobs?” She rubs her hands quickly over her eyes. “What do we, you know… _do_?”

“Well, Faith, you’re a counselor at the college—”

That seems to break Buffy out of her self-pitying reverie. She snorts loudly. “They hired her to work with _children_? Are they _psychotic_?”

Faith rolls her eyes. “Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence, B.”

“You were arrested for murder.”

“Murder two, twenty-five to life,” she shoots back with practiced ease. “But who’s counting?”

“You’re a murderer?” Giles interjects from the other side of the room, suddenly looking pale and stricken.

Faith leans back against the wall, arms crossed defensively. “It’s a long story.”   

Buffy scoffs. “It _really_ isn’t.”

Faith glares at her. “Well, since I’m obviously not about to _kill_ anyone any time soon, does it _matter_ right now?” When neither one of them answers her, Faith sighs and turns back to Giles. “So what does Buffy do? Personal shopper? Waitress? Avon Lady?”

Giles looks a little taken aback at the animosity of their exchange, at the quick way they’re able to flip from vicious barbs to ordinary conversation, and so it takes him a moment to regain his composure. “No, she…” His eyes flit between the two women. “She works with Willow at the Public Library.”

Faith bursts out laughing. “Oh God, that’s _worse_.”

Buffy blanches. “I work with… _books_? That’s my _job_? To babysit _books_?”

“Being a librarian is a very rewarding and fulfilling profession, Buffy,” Giles says, a little bit defensively.

“To _you_ , maybe! To _boring_ people!” She looks stricken, almost worse than when she discovered the wedding ring on her finger this morning. (Almost. Key word is almost.) “I can’t believe I’m a _librarian_. God, Giles, what have you _done_ to me?”

Giles huffs, and Faith thinks that if it weren’t physically impossible for him to do so, he would roll his eyes right now. “It was actually Faith’s idea. A very good one, mind you. You can do all of your Slayer research from the comfort of your own job and no one is ever the wiser. City plans, books on demons, internet research, ancient texts and languages…”

Buffy’s eyes are impossibly wide. “Am I… am I a _nerd_ , here?”

“You’re very dedicated to your studies, Buffy. That hardly makes you a _nerd_.” The word tumbles off his tongue uncomfortably, and Faith thinks it’s probably because he’s never had to say it before.

“But what… I mean… that’s _your_ job! The books and the research and the computers and the texts. That’s all you and Willow. I’ve always been hopeless about that stuff!”

“What do you mean, ‘you and Willow’? Willow isn’t… she’s not a part of this.”

“What? Why not? She’s amazing at all of this research-text-stuff. Plus, with the magic, it just seems _dumb_ for me to waste my time doing—”

Giles holds out a hand to stop her from speaking, and Buffy falls silent almost at once. “Are you… where you come from, this… other world,” he pauses and takes a deep breath, like he’s steeling himself for what he’s about to say. “Does Willow know about your other life? About you being a Slayer?”

“What?” Buffy frowns, clearly confused. “My other… yeah, she knows I’m the Slayer. Of course she does.” A pause while she stares at the expression on Giles’ face.

Buffy realizes what he means a split second after Faith. Faith knows Buffy realizes after she does, because the moment it dawns on her she jolts and turns her attention fully to Buffy, staring her down, and she watches the recognition sink in like it’s happening in slow-motion. “Fuck,” Faith whispers, but immediately bites her tongue, because she knows this doesn’t actually concern her. Not really. These aren’t _her_ friends, this isn’t _her_ family, but… but _still_. _Fuck_.

“She doesn’t know,” Buffy whispers. “ _How_ does she not know? What about… what about Xander? Dawn? Do they not…?”

“You… no, I’m afraid…” Giles shakes his head. “No. It’s just the three of us, in this room. We’re the only ones who know.”

Faith’s never experienced shell shock; not in the traditional sense, in the whole a-bomb-just-blew-up-next-to-your-face sense. She’s never been next to a bomb when it goes off, never been left reeling with ringing ears and blurry vision and a dizzying response to a concussive blast.

Faith’s never experienced shell shock, but with the way Buffy’s sitting stock-still, with the way Buffy’s emotions are surging through her, loud and intense and world-shaking in their unexpected influx, so loud that Faith can feel them crashing over her, too…

She thinks she might understand how it feels.

 

 

It’s easier, after that. They talk for a lot longer, exchange a lot more information. Giles tries to explain everything to the best of his ability, and they try to answer his questions as best they can. And it’s easier, after that.

But Faith’s pretty sure it’s only easier because Buffy’s stopped feeling.

She’s shut down. Faith can tell. And not only because she can no longer feel the rising swell of panic and anxiety that had been a near-constant feature of Buffy’s emotional state for the past few hours. She can _also_ tell because Faith herself is intimately familiar with that reaction, with that emotional response to difficult situations. She knows all about compartmentalization and the need to pretend like everything is fine because your entire world feels like it’s tilting on its side and you feel like you’re scrambling to stay upright and you just need everything to be okay because in reality _nothing_ is but thinking about that and trying to deal with it is _too much too hard can’t do it._

So, Faith gets it. She isn’t entirely unsympathetic to the feeling.

But they don’t have time to deal with all of that. Not now.

One of them has to be fine and normal and one of them has to pay careful attention to everything that Giles is saying and one of them has to keep a cool head about all of this business. Usually, that person would be Buffy (because Buffy is _always_ that person), but considering the fact that she’s having to slowly come to terms with the fact that they might be stuck in this alternate, parallel dimension where everything is backwards and wrong and they’re isolated and alone and no one knows who they are or what they’re going through and Dawn is 21 and Buffy’s a _librarian_ , for fuck’s sake…

Well. One of them has to do it. And Faith figures if Buffy ain’t capable, then it’s gotta be her.

So she does her best to learn, to pay attention, to fill in the gaps of Giles’ knowledge, to apprise him of their situation, to take stock of their old enemies and their past allies because maybe someone knows something more than they think they know and, hey, no idea is a bad idea when you’re literally driving blind.

So. She learns.

She learns that Angel’s in LA fighting the good fight. She learns that Xander’s still with that rich crazy bitch who used to drive Faith absolutely nuts in high school. She learns that there are no Potential Slayers, no crazy psychopathic gods trying to kill them. She learns that Spike ain’t around, and apparently no one really knows where he is, because as far as Giles is concerned he never got that weird chip in his head that made him all docile and de-fanged. And he definitely never got a soul. (She feels a little twinge of sorrow, upon hearing this, but she can’t be sure if it’s her own sadness or Buffy’s poking through, because she knows how close they are, how close they _were_ — believe her, she _knows_ — but Faith’s _also_ sort of grown to like the guy, in her own way, over the past month or so. She’s kind of grown to think that he really isn’t all that terrible. So, it’s a pity to hear.)

The weirdest part of it is Giles’ face, when Buffy asks after him. Because to all the people in this weird, fucked-up world, Spike was ( _is_ , maybe. Who knows if he’s still kicking) — nothing. He’s nothing, to them. Just some pain in the ass vampire who wouldn’t dust fast enough for any of their liking. None of them knew him, or fought with him, or fought _for_ him, or—

It’s weird, is all. That’s all she’s trying to say.

It’s just… weird.

She also learns that Joyce is still dead. Buffy keeping her secret identity a secret wasn’t ever going to save her from an aneurism. Which is a load of fucking _bullshit_ , in Faith’s opinion, because it isn’t _fair_ that there was nothing any of them could do to keep her around. And Faith may have had her issues — and yeah, she may have tried to kill the lady a couple of times — but she’s always really, _really_ liked Joyce; always thought she was a great mom; a top-notch gal. And she’s older now, and that prison-sanctioned therapy really _did_ help her a little bit, because she knows now that her dislike of Buffy’s mom always stemmed from a deep-seated kind of furious jealousy. She never really _hated_ Joyce, and _definitely_ never wanted her dead. She’s just always been jealous of the relationship Buffy has with her mother, of that unselfish, real, _compassionate_ kind of love that sticks around, strong and untarnished, through good times and bad. (At least, that’s what her therapist inside said. And he may have been a condescending prick, but there were times when he _did_ seem to know his stuff.)

It isn’t fair, what happened to her; it’s _never_ been fair. If there’s anything of which Faith is entirely certain, it’s the fact that Joyce Summers was too good of a lady to die when she did. And it isn’t _fair_.

(But then, life’s never been fair.)

Faith’s a little worried that it’ll really hurt B, when she figures out that her mom is still gone. But obviously she must have realized much earlier than Faith — maybe even in the first few moments of them waking up — because when Giles tentatively brings it up she brushes him off. “I know, Giles,” she says curtly. “It’s fine.”

It’s _not_ fine. Faith _knows_ it’s not fine. Whether it’s been 2 years or 7, there’s no way you can just walk away from that kinda pain unchanged. But she also knows that she’d be hard-pressed to get anything remotely close to an emotional comment out of Buffy on a good, normal, not-parallel-universe day. So for today? She just decides to leave it. Buffy’s got enough to deal with without Faith nitpicking at her feelings left right and center.

Besides, they really don’t have time for anything that _big_ right now. Because it’s well past lunch time and they’ve made _basically_ no progress on figuring anything out. And Faith is exhausted and bone-weary and Buffy doesn’t look much better, and Dawn must be headed home from school soon, if she isn’t already back, and she might _technically_ be old enough to be left alone without a babysitter but Faith knows that the idea of leaving her sister by herself in that giant house is making Buffy uncomfortable and anxious and eager to leave.

So they agree to leave, for the day. Giles is already thumbing through thick, heavy, dusty texts by the time Faith even suggests it, and she thinks he’s probably a little relieved to get them out of his hair so he can start on the mountains and mountains of research they’re going to need to do to solve this puzzle.

So they agree to leave, with a promise to call if anything suspicious or worrying happens, or if they need any help, or if they discover anything during the process of their own reading (because he makes them promise to do their own research, too, as if this day wasn’t already bad enough).

He looks like he wants to hug them as he leads them to the door, but Faith very quickly dodges his arms and ducks out into the courtyard before he can snag her.

Buffy, on the other hand, practically falls into his embrace.

She hugs him tightly, her face buried in the fabric of his sweater, and Faith has to swallow against the lurch of _longing jealousy want_ that pushes against the back of her throat at the solid, comforting exchange. She blinks rapidly and looks away, feeling remarkably like she’s intruding on some sort of private father-daughter/mentor-mentee/Watcher-Slayer moment.

When Giles finally pulls back he’s smiling, sadly. He brings a hand up and uses his thumb to brush lightly at the tears that have started to collect in the corner of Buffy’s eyes. “Call me if you need anything, Buffy,” he says quietly, and she nods against the hand still cupping her cheek. Giles glances over the top of her head. “You too, Faith. Whatever you need.”

She nods stiffly. “Thanks, G-man,” she says with what she hopes is a neutral expression.

He smiles briefly before his face falls a little, looking suddenly serious. “I don’t think you should tell anyone about this, about your situation,” he says solemnly. “For… well, for several reasons, chief among them being that no one else in your life knows about demons or… or magic spells or Hell dimensions. And secondly, until we can ascertain where you’ve come from or what has caused this, you should…” He grimaces. “I think _discretion_ is key. So you should act natural, or… as natural as possible, at least. So as to not arouse suspicion.”

Buffy takes a breath. “So… pretend everything’s okay. Pretend to live together and to get along and to work where we work and to— to be married. Until we can figure this whole thing out.”

It’s not a question, but Giles still nods. “Yes. I think that would be wise.”

Buffy sighs loudly and says, with a muted grimace, “Sure. Should be a piece of cake,” and Faith doesn’t need to be attuned to her emotions to know that she’s practically _dripping_ sarcasm.

____________________

The walk back to Buffy’s house is quiet, the silence between them tense. Buffy’s shoulders are drawn up tight, her hands shoved roughly into the pockets of her coat. She’s shivering a little, but Faith isn’t entirely sure if that’s because of the nipping breeze or because of their exhausting afternoon.

Buffy’s shivering, and Faith spends approximately twenty seconds wondering whether she should offer Buffy her outer layer (because she’s cold and Faith isn’t and it isn’t that big of a deal, really, it’s just a _jacket_ , and just because Buffy’s already got one on doesn’t mean she might not need another, and if Buffy needs it more than her then it really isn’t a big deal for Faith to just _offer_ it to her), but finally decides that Buffy would turn her down, anyway. So she just sinks deeper into her own leather jacket and walks shoulder to shoulder with Buffy, not speaking, scuffing the toe of her boots against the pavement with every step.

Eventually, she decides to break the silence. Because it’s starting to feel a little unbearable, what with the heavy weight of words left unsaid, what with the impending severity of their maybe-inescapable situation. And Faith likes long, sullen silences as much as the next gal, but there’s something about this one that feels excruciating.

“So what the hell is this place, then?” she asks, two blocks out from the Summers home. Her own hands are stuffed deep into the pockets of her jacket, and when she walks a little too close to Buffy their elbows knock together. (Their elbows keep knocking together but neither one of them comments on it.)

Faith clears her throat when it looks like Buffy isn’t going to respond. So she tries again: “It’s like… a world where vampires run through the night all scary-like on the prowl for innocent girls, but nobody seems to know that we’ve got the goods to slay them?”

Buffy still won’t look at her. “They don’t know,” she mutters under her breath, and Faith gets the distinct impression that she’s talking more to herself than anything. “None of them know.” Finally, Buffy turns. She stops in the middle of the sidewalk, right outside her front door, and looks at Faith with such a strangely vulnerable expression that it makes Faith’s breath catch in her throat. (She looks like she’s one solid hit away from keeling over, and Faith doesn’t know whether she should reach out to steady her or whether she should make her sit down or whether she should be the one to do the hitting.) “How do none of them know?”

Faith shrugs, casting her glance around the quiet, empty street. It’s easier than looking at Buffy, at least. “Apparently _this_ you managed to keep her secret identity a secret. Always knew you were shit at that.”

It doesn’t provoke the reaction she wanted (which was, really: any reaction at all). Buffy just sighs and brushes past her, pushing open her front door and slipping inside the dark, empty house. Faith follows behind her quietly, taking the porch stairs two at a time.

When she gets inside she sees Buffy standing in the living room, her expression a cross between quiet contemplation and aching sadness. She looks around the house as Faith watches her, her eyes tracing over picture frames full of smiling faces (there’s one of her and Faith in white dresses, eyes closed and heads bent together as they share a soft kiss, but Buffy — like Faith — chooses to pointedly ignore it); furniture that’s worn with comfortable, loving use; a pretty garden out front and sun shining in through windows that look like they’ve never been smashed in a fight. Everything just looks so… _peaceful_ , so purposeful, so serene, and as Faith watches her, Buffy swallows thickly.

“So this is what the world would look like if I’d never dragged Willow and Xander into all my… into everything. All the Slayer stuff.”

Faith, understanding suddenly what has put Buffy into this strange mood, pushes herself off of the doorframe she has decided to inhabit. “Hey,” she says softly, taking a couple steps forward, reaching out an arm but not going so far as to actually _touch_ Buffy. Her hand pauses, a few inches away from Buffy’s upper arm, her fingers flexing uselessly in the air. “You don’t know that for sure,” she almost whispers.

Buffy, teeth clenched and throat tight and eyes looking just a little too close to teary to make Faith strictly comfortable, shakes her head. “This is the world we’d live in if I’d kept my friends out of danger. Everyone’s alive, Giles isn’t in England, the town’s still standing, Xander and Cordy are together and happy, Dawn’s going to college… the Hellmouth situation is under control and not about to open up and swallow everything whole.” She shakes her head and moves toward the window, leaning her forehead against the cool glass, a far away look in her eyes. “Everything I’ve ever done _with_ them, all the times we’ve saved the world… I’ve done them here, too, on my own. Only difference is that here, everyone is happier and everyone is _alive_ and better off than—”

“Buffy, you _can’t_ know that this world is—”

“ _Look_ at it, Faith,” she says, her voice thick with unshed tears. Faith can’t take her eyes off of the woman in front of her long enough to actually look at the room they’re standing in. “Look at this place.”

“Yeah well… well _you_ look around, too. Things aren’t _that_ different. That guy Red was seeing in high school, what’s his name… short and kinda hairy? Yeah, he ain’t around. And Xander’s gal, Anya? Looks like they never met, here. She’s probably still a demon. And don’t tell me it doesn’t freak you out that Cordy’s still hanging around Sunnydale.” Buffy ignores her. She just closes her eyes. Faith sighs. “So things are _different_ but a lot of stuff is the same. Still us in this house raising the pipsqueak. Still you and all the Scooby gang, together in spite of all the supernatural mumbo jumbo.”

When Buffy still doesn’t say anything, Faith tries again. She rolls her neck and straightens her shoulders. “And, well… what about you and me?”

 _That_ gets Buffy’s attention. She turns slowly and puts a hand on the back of the couch. “What _about_ us?”

“Don’t tell me you’re cool with that. With… with this.” She gestures with her left hand, and the ring there gleams a little, like it’s taunting them. Buffy’s eyes are fixed on it, her expression unreadable. “Seems this version of us got a little… _closer_ than we might have liked.”

“Another thing we got right. At least we aren’t trying to kill each other, here. At least you never murdered anyone.”

“Well, that’s just rude. How do you know we _both_ didn’t get all stabby in our teenage-angst years?”

“Are you supposed to be helping me? Because I gotta say, you’re doing a pretty terrible job.”

“My _point_ is: you don’t know everything about this world, yet. And yeah, look, there are things that are different about this place. And you might even think some of them are good, better than the Sunny-D we left behind. But… I mean _clearly_ they aren’t _all_ good. Buffy and Faith over in this time line seem to have fucked around quite a bit. And if you don’t believe me, well…” She lifts her left hand and wiggles her fingers, allowing the small diamond-encrusted ring to glitter in the early afternoon light. “And either way, moping about it isn’t gonna get us back to our own time or our own world, ‘kay? So suck it up, Buttercup, because we’ve got a demon to find.”

Buffy looks like she wants to fight, looks like she wants to argue a little longer, but before she can do much more than open her mouth, the front door swings open. “Buffy, Faith!” Dawn calls, dumping her backpack by the door and kicking her shoes off, leaving them in a messy pile by the stairs. “I’m home!”

Her presence distracts them, breaks the growing tension between them. Buffy closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, steadying herself. When she opens them again she looks at Faith. “So, we leave at sundown?”

Faith nods. “Sundown.”

____________________

At quarter to 6, when the light outside is finally starting to dim (and Buffy and Faith have finished snooping through the entire house, thumbing through every picture in every camera they could get their hands on, and scouring as much of the internet as they could figure out), Faith is rifling through the weapons chest in Buffy’s old bedroom, hoping to come across something she recognizes. It’s a nice collection — and clearly they haven’t skimped on their arsenal, because if she counts all of this stuff plus the stuff hidden in the closet, they must have close to 100 things they could use for murder and/or slayage — but nothing is really familiar to her. There are no weapons that track from the Other Place. She grabs a few stakes and slips a couple knives into her holsters, anyway. They might not be _her_ knives, but they’re good quality, a solid weight, and feel comfortable in her hands.

As she slips the stakes up her sleeves and into her pockets, she feels a newfound _purpose_ start to take hold of her. They’ve decided to act as ‘normal’ as possible. Well… whatever passes for ‘normal’ here, at least. Because Giles is right — the less suspicious they are, the better. They just have to do their best to blend in and not ruffle any feathers. At least until they can get a better hand on their situation. Because, frankly, their situation is pretty much fucked.

They still have no clue what the _fuck_ is going on, don’t know if they’ve fucked something up or if they’re surrounded by _real_ _people_ or demons who are just wearing the skins of Buffy’s friends and family. (It’s not feeling very likely, though. If this is some sort of curse, some sort of trick, some sort of demon voodoo, then whoever’s responsible must have _seriously_ done their research. A lot of intricate shit has been put into this plan, if that’s the case. Fake pictures and marriage licenses and rings and jobs and identities and thinking to bring _Cordelia_ back into the mix? That’s some crazy thinking, demons. If there _is_ some sort of evil power orchestrating all of this, Faith has to admit that she’s a little impressed by it.)

The point is, they can’t _tell_ anything. They don’t know _anything_. And that’s terrifying and confusing in its own right.

Faith’s strapping a knife to her ankle when she realizes she’s no longer alone. She feels Buffy before she sees her, before she hears her. Like this tingling sensation at the top of her spine. Like she’s being watched.

She glances over her shoulder and sure enough, Buffy is hovering in the doorway, chewing on her lower lip, looking a little conflicted. (About what, Faith isn’t sure. But then again, Buffy’s always worried about _something_.)

Faith offers her a stake with a tilt of the head and an outstretched arm and Buffy takes the sharp wood from her hand with a nod of thanks.

“Nice collection,” Faith says, indicating the open trunk she’s kneeling in front of.

“This is where I used hide my stakes from my mom.”

Faith arches her eyebrows. “Oh,” she says, a little uncertain. She stands quickly, brushing at some imaginary dust on her knees. “Sorry, I didn’t know—”

Buffy shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it. I guess… technically, they’re yours, too.”

Faith shifts in place, not sure how to respond to that. She feels her ears start to go red, and rubs at the back of her neck so she doesn’t have to stand still. “Right,” she says lamely, even though Buffy has moved past her, and seems to no longer be paying her much attention at all.

Buffy moves toward her bookshelf, her fingers trailing along the spines there. She seems to be pretty deep in thought, but she must not be, because she asks a moment later, “Do you have everything you need?”

Faith nods, even though she knows Buffy can’t see her. “Ready when you are, B.”

Buffy hums. “Sun’s not down, yet.”

“Right.” But Faith is anxious to leave, and she frankly wouldn’t be opposed to starting their patrol, like… right this very second. Because this house is weird and quiet and she doesn’t feel comfortable in it _at all,_ and Dawn keeps trying to talk to her about school and work and Faith is a pretty decent liar, all things considered, but it’s getting harder and harder to speak to her because she can’t get over just how _weird_ this all is, can’t get over the way Dawn just _looks_ at her, open and happy and not-at-all pissed. And it’s weird and it’s freaking her out and she just wishes they could go out and kill something because she _knows_ how to do that, she’s _good_ at that, and at least if she’s out there she doesn’t have to be here and—

The doorbell rings, making them both jump in surprise.

They exchange a look, partway between ‘confused’ and ‘terrified.’

“I’ve got it!” Dawn calls from somewhere downstairs, and Buffy’s already out the door by the time Faith’s feet catch up with her brain and she’s able to follow.

She’s too busy trying to see the front door to realize that Buffy’s frozen halfway down the stairs, so Faith collides inelegantly with her back with a loud grunt, but Buffy is like a wall of stone because she doesn’t budge even an inch, even with the force of the impact. Faith moves to say something, but one look at Buffy’s face makes her words die in her throat.

She looks like she’s seen a ghost.

“Buffy,” Faith hisses, trying to spur her into action, but Buffy’s eyes are glued on the figures by the door, on the two women exchanging warm hugs with her sister.

Buffy looks like she’s about to faint, and Faith’s pretty sure it’s not because of Willow’s new hairstyle. She’s pretty sure it’s because of the chick who’s with her. Buffy’s staring at the pair of them and getting all teary-eyed and this is _not_ laying low, mind you, and all Faith can do is nudge her with an open palm and try and get her to move because this is _not being discrete_.

And yeah, Giles told them that Willow was still with that chick from college (Tara, Faith remembers), so it’s not like they didn’t _know_ she would be around, but she guesses it’s one thing to _know_ and another thing to _see_ , and so far Buffy looks like she’s not handling the ‘seeing’ part all too well.

Faith only met Tara the one time, a few years back (and she’s not sure if it _totally_ counts, because she was wearing Buffy’s face and body the whole time), but she seemed like a sweet enough kid. Totally enamored with Red, anyway. Real shame about what happened to her.

Still, it doesn’t excuse Buffy’s _complete_ lack of keeping her shit together. Faith squeezes her upper arm, tight, in a wordless warning.

It seems to work. Buffy takes a few stuttering, uneasy steps, and finally finishes her descent, Faith a close presence just behind her right shoulder. “What…” She swallows as the people by the door turn to look at her. “What are you guys doing here?” she asks, and her voice sounds a little hoarse, and Faith hopes that the way she’s gripping Buffy’s shoulder looks relaxed and natural to the others, because she’s pretty sure Buffy would fall over if she weren’t holding on to her.

“What do you mean?” Willow asks with a bright smile. She moves forward and wraps Buffy in a one-armed hug. She shoots Faith a happy little grin, too, that Faith tries to return as best she can. “It’s Friday night. It’s taco night! And our turn to cook. So out of the way, please.” Tara smiles as she slips wordlessly past Faith and into the kitchen, her arms laden with dishes and groceries.

Buffy stares at her with open wonder. “Right,” she says carefully. “Taco night. Sorry, must have slipped my mind.”

Willow winks exaggeratedly, shooting them both a knowing look. “Right. ‘Slipped your mind.’ Dawn told us all about how you two were ‘ _sick’_ this morning.”

Faith withdraws her hand from Buffy’s shoulder quickly and clears her throat loudly as Buffy flushes a dark crimson. “We _were_ sick,” Buffy defends, but it sounds weak even to Faith’s ears, and _Jesus Christ_ this girl really _can’t_ lie, can she?

“Right. Sure.” Willow winks again. “I got you.”

Faith brushes the stake she has hidden in her jacket with longing fingers and Willow grabs Buffy by the elbow and drags her into the kitchen, already talking excitedly about something Faith neither understands nor cares to learn about.

She better get used to the anxious, jittery feeling in her stomach.

They obviously aren’t gonna get out of here for a while.

____________________

It takes hours for them to leave — literally _hours_. And Faith has never really _had_ friends — not like Buffy, at least — but she’s not exactly _unhappy_ about that, not right now, because it _really_ doesn’t seem like it’s worth all the hassle. Having people hanging around, following after her when she walks between rooms, trying to exchange polite chit-chat with her about _jobs_ and _work_ and _what they had for lunch_ … God, it’s _infuriating_. How can _anyone_ enjoy this? It’s driving her absolutely crazy. (It doesn’t help that she has to dodge most of the questions about her so-called ‘personal life’, because Giles told her she was a ‘counselor at the college’ but what the hell does that even _mean?_ What does a counselor even _do?_ Just because Faith spent most of her adolescence in and out of guidance counselors’ offices doesn’t mean she knows what their actual _jobs_ are like.)

She’s a private person, as a general rule. She’s pretty comfortable keeping her business to herself. And she likes when other people do the same. She doesn’t need people — she’s never _really_ needed people — so she doesn’t appreciate all of this ‘up-in-her-business’ crap.

Faith is stressed for the _entire_ goddamn meal. She’s stressed for a lot of reasons, really: because she’s itching to get out and do some hunting; because Buffy’s friends seem far too comfortable around her; because Buffy keeps glancing at her like Faith’s about to take a swing at one of them. But mostly she’s stressed because these aren’t just two random strangers in Buffy’s house; these are Buffy’s _best friends_. Two of the people who know her better than _anyone_ else. And it becomes pretty obvious pretty quickly that she and Buffy have _no_ idea how on Earth they’re supposed to act, together. How do you _act_ married? How are you supposed to know how to talk to your _wife_? How do you pretend to be in love with someone you kind of can’t stand? Are they supposed to hold hands while they eat? Are they supposed to _kiss_? Are they supposed to share loving and adoring looks, or feed each other bites from their own plates?

(The thought of doing any of that makes Faith want to gag, so she makes an executive decision that even if that _is_ how they usually act, even if that _is_ what they’re supposed to do to convince Willow that they’re married and happy and that they actually are who they’re pretending to be, there’s no way in hell anyone’s gonna make _her_ do any of that gross couple-y bullshit.)

The dinner sets Faith’s teeth on edge. For every cute term of endearment Red and her girl exchange, for every kiss on the cheek, for every saccharine and tooth-aching story, Faith feels a flush of ( _inferiority shame_ _insecurity_ ) disgust.

It makes her jittery, and she can feel Buffy’s leg bouncing under the table, can see the way Buffy twitches every time Willow asks her an innocuous question, every time Willow’s girl’s curious eyes still on her face for too long. Almost like she can tell something’s wrong.

It makes Faith jittery and uncomfortable, like she’s about to be found out, like she can’t keep a secret to save her life, like the people around her are growing increasingly more suspicious, so when she gets up to clear the plates at the end of dinner she presses a light and fleeting kiss to Buffy’s cheek, almost on a whim. Because she feels like she has to. Because she feels like they’re doing a pretty terrible job of pretending to tolerate each other, and she feels like she _has_ to. She hates coupley bullshit, but this is feels more like a matter of life or death than anything else (and Faith has always kind of liked matters of life or death).

It takes Buffy by surprise and she blinks and turns to look at Faith (maybe to ask her questions or maybe to ream her out for kissing her without asking), but Faith is already halfway to the kitchen by the time Buffy opens her mouth, her back to the table so none of them can see that she’s fighting a blush.

Faith lets the plates tumble into the sink with a careless clatter. She grips the counter with one hand, using the other to rub at her temple, trying to push away a mounting headache. Her eyes are screwed shut and she clenches her jaw tight, grinding her teeth together. She feels like she might be hiding, maybe a little, by escaping to this uninhabited part of the house, but no one can prove it. So.

(She kissed Buffy. She _kissed_ Buffy. _She_ kissed _Buffy_. Is she _insane_? Is she _trying_ to get her ass kicked? Why did she think it was a good idea to put her face close to Buffy’s for any reason except to snarl at her? What could have possibly possessed her to do something so idiotic? God, she must really be losing her mind.)

Someone clears their throat behind her, and Faith startles at the unexpected noise. She whips around to see Red’s girl ( _Tara_ , she thinks) frowning at her with light, moderate concern. Something in Faith’s stomach swoops. “Are you two fighting?” Tara asks quietly.

Faith braces her hands on the counter behind her back. She blinks at her, surprised but trying not to show it. “What?” she asks, with a slight edge of hostility to her tone.

“You and Buffy,” Tara says, walking forward to deposit the many wine glasses she clutches in her hands into the already-crowded sink. “Are you two fighting?”

“We—” Faith feels her throat go dry. “No. No, we’re fine. Five by five.”

Tara frowns a little as she reaches for a sponge. “It’s alright if you aren’t,” she says easily, turning the faucet on and squirting some dish soap onto the top of the pile. “Couples go through rough patches. And I know you’ve both been worrying about paying for Dawn’s school. Sometimes that can cause tension.”

Faith fights against the urge to huff. She crosses her arms over her chest defensively. “There’s no tension. We aren’t going through a rough patch,” she practically growls. “Everything’s fine with us.”

Tara smiles sympathetically (and Faith hates it _so_ much, hates that pitying little look on her face, that kind of knowing understanding that she’s shooting her direction.) “It’s alright, Faith,” she says seriously, drying her hands on a dishtowel hanging from the oven. “You don’t have to talk to me about it, not if you don’t want to. But I know there’s something wrong, so if you need—”

Faith stares at her, eyes skimming her face carefully. “You _know_ there’s something wrong?” She feels anxious, suspicious, uncertain, distrustful, all at once. “How do you _know_ something’s wrong?”

Tara blinks a few times. “Oh it’s just… um… your aura.”

“My _what_ now?”

Tara goes red. “Oh, no, um… nothing. It’s n-nothing. You just seem distracted, is all.”

Faith squints at her. _What the fuck is she talking about? What’s an **aura**? What can she see that I can’t? _ “Well… we’re fine,” she says stubbornly. “So no need to worry.”

Tara smiles nervously, her teeth pulling at her lip. “Okay. Well if you n-need—”

“You don’t have to do the dishes. I’ll grab B and make her do them.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine. I don’t mind—”

“I’ll get Buffy.” Faith slips from the room before Tara can say anything else.

In the dining room, Buffy and Willow are talking quietly to each other. Faith can see the way Buffy’s eyes track across Willow’s face, the way they seem to linger on certain features, like they’re trying to work out what about her has changed from the Willow they know. Red, thankfully, doesn’t seem to notice anything strange about Buffy’s behavior. So, that’s good.

Faith sidles up to Buffy, interrupting their conversation. “Hey, can I talk to you for a sec?” she asks, eyes flicking quickly to Willow, before focusing her attention back on B. Buffy frowns at her, but Faith tries to shoot her what she hopes is a reassuring smile. “Won’t take long. Promise.”

“Sure.” Buffy glances at Willow as she stands slowly. “Be back in a minute.”

Willow smiles. “I’ll go help Tara in the kitchen. Take your time.”

Faith has a death-grip on the crook of Buffy’s elbow as she drags her off toward the family room but before she gets there she turns right. Faith pulls her into the hallway next to the stairs. It’s dark, and Buffy’s only half-lit by the light that bleeds in from the dining room. It seems to cut her face in half.

She quirks an eyebrow and crosses her arms over her chest when Faith turns to face her, looking distinctly unimpressed. “What’s this all about, then?”

Faith’s nose twitches. “Tara knows something’s up.”

“What?”

“She was being all weird, just now. Talking about how things are tense between us and asking if we’re fighting. Talking about how my aura is wrong, or something.”

Buffy’s eyes bulge, just a little. “She talked about your aura? Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Faith frowns. “Why, does that matter?”

“You’re _sure_ she said ‘ _aura’_?”

“Yeah. That’s what she said.” Buffy starts chewing on her right thumb nail, an unreadable expression on her face. “You wanna clue me in on what’s going on here?” Faith asks, feeling a touch annoyed at being left out of the swirling mystery Buffy seems to be in the middle of solving.

Buffy shakes her head quickly. “Don’t know. Might be nothing.”

The floorboards in the dining room creak, and Faith knows they have only precious seconds until Tara and/or Willow get within earshot. “Look, they’re suspicious,” she hisses at Buffy, taking a step forward and into her space. “They think something’s up. So just… I’m gonna kiss you, quickly. Just go with it.”

Buffy freezes, arms dropping limply to her sides. “You’re going to _what_?”

“Shut up,” Faith hisses. “And don’t forget to kiss me back.”

And then her hands are in Buffy’s hair, and Buffy’s hands are on her shoulders (to push her off? to pull her in?) and then her lips are on Buffy’s and they’re _kissing_ and Faith can’t pay attention to anything else, can’t pay attention to the way the footsteps pause when they round the corner, can’t pay attention to the way Red or Tara or whoever it is turns on their heel and slips away again, can’t focus on anything except the feeling of Buffy’s hair in her fingers and Buffy’s lips moving against hers and Buffy’s body pressed against hers and _holy shit Buffy’s kissing her back._

By the time they pull away seconds later — faces flushed and hair tousled, bodies pressed tight — they are quite alone. And neither one could really say if either Willow or Tara had seen them.

____________________

Maybe it’s because they’re trapped in an alternate universe, or maybe it’s because of the kiss at dinner (Faith has to stop thinking about it she shouldn’t be thinking about it she has to get it off her mind), but Buffy is _particularly_ brutal during their patrol. Faith’s never really thought of herself as the measured, controlled one of the two of them, but with the way Buffy is currently pummeling the poor vamp she has backed against a mausoleum, Faith thinks maybe she’s gonna have to reevaluate that statement.

His head hits the stone with a sickening _crunch_ and Faith has to fight against the urge to wince. She’s leaning against a tree a few paces away, sprawled on the ground with her hands folded behind her head, watching Buffy beat the ever loving _shit_ out of Tall Dark and Fanged, and working very hard to keep her face impassive. “Need a hand? Or a stake?” she calls, even as Buffy spins and lands a roundhouse kick to the guy’s jaw.

Buffy ignores her. Faith sighs and settles back against her tree, content to watch the brawl in front of her. Better that than interfere without Buffy’s explicit permission. That’s just a good way to get herself punched, and she’s not exactly itching for that, tonight. “Well, I’ll be here whenever you get tired,” she says, stifling a yawn and stretching out further, back against the tree trunk, legs crossed at the ankle.

Buffy growls but continues her onslaught. Faith just rolls her eyes.

Finally, when Buffy is well-and-truly tired, when her forehead shines with sweat, and when the vamp is barely able to stand on his own, Buffy rips off a tree branch from a nearby oak and plunges it into his heart with hardly a second thought.

She drops the branch to the ground as he disappears in a cloud of dust, and she turns to Faith, breathing a little heavily, to glare at her lounging form. “ _You_ were a lot of help.”

Faith shrugs. “ _I’m_ not the one who wanted to play with my food.”

Buffy rolls her eyes and stalks off without another word, already on the hunt for something else to kill, despite the fact that it’s well after midnight and they’ve already been at this for a good four hours. They’ve dusted a dozen vamps between the pair of them, and Faith is starting to think that Buffy might be on a mission to stay out all night, at the rate she’s going.

Faith scrambles after her, jogging to catch up to her quick strides. “Hey, slow down,” she says as she pulls up shoulder-to-shoulder with Buffy. Buffy doesn’t reply, and she _certainly_ doesn’t slow down, so Faith lets out a sharp breath and shoves her hands deep into her pockets. “You wanna head back anytime soon?” she tries again, eyeing Buffy carefully and discretely.

“Nope.” Buffy shakes her head.  “Not tired.”

Faith grabs her upper arm and pulls her to a gentle stop. “B, listen to me, okay?” she half-pleads. “You just gotta… look, maybe we should just chill, for tonight. It’s been a crazy long day and I don’t know about you, but I’m wiped. Maybe we should catch some sleep and try and figure all of this out in the morning.”

Buffy shakes her head again and pulls her arm out of Faith’s grip. “We can’t waste any time. Don’t you get that? You don’t know what places like this are _like_. We could be stuck in some alternate dimension where time moves differently. If we’re here for two months, on the other side it might feel like _twenty years_. Or it could be the other way around. When Angel died, he spent a thousand years being tortured in a Hell dimension while I just had a pretty rough summer without my boyfriend. Every _minute_ we’re wasting here is another minute we aren’t—”

“Look, B,” Faith cuts her off quickly, “I understand you’re wicked stressed. Frankly, our situation blows. But we’ve gotta stay cool. It’s the only way we’re gonna get through this. Can you handle that?” Buffy still looks reluctant and half ready to fight her some more. Faith sighs. “Look, you’re no good to me if you’re passing out because you’re too beat to keep your eyes open. What’s the first rule of slaying?” Buffy stares at her. “C’mon, B, you got this. Same as airplanes.”

Buffy takes a deep breath, clearly resigned. “You have to help yourself before you can help anyone else,” she mutters.

Faith nods. “Exactly. If you go out into the world to fight the bloodsuckers with a bunch of broken bones and torn muscles, the only good you’re gonna do anyone is by giving some vamp a free and easy meal. So why should this be any different?”

Buffy sighs, and she might look a little pissed off, but Faith knows that she’s won. “Since when have _you_ been the responsible one?” she asks as they start off together, walking in-step in the direction of the Summers home.

Faith knocks Buffy’s elbow with her own. “Well, you may recall, Buff, but I spent the past two years in lock-up. They teach you a good bit about discipline, there.”

There are a few long moments of silence — not awkward, not tense, but poignant all the same — as they walk side-by-side. It’s only once they emerge from the graveyard, only once their feet start slapping against the concrete of idyllic California sidewalks that Buffy speaks again. “So… prison really _did_ help you?” she asks softly. A week ago, the question probably would have made Faith tense completely, or lash out, or turn on the woman walking next to her. But after the day they’ve had, Faith finds that it prompts no greater response in her than resignation. “It isn’t…” Buffy continues, a little hesitantly, “it wasn’t just… locking you up and throwing away the key?”

“Oh no, there was definitely a lot of that. It was easier for you all if I was out of the way. Prison was the best bet, where I couldn’t hurt anyone else or get in the way.”

“Faith, you know that’s not why—”

“It is. It is why.” Faith’s voice is cutting, and it forces Buffy into silence. They continue to walk and Faith takes a long, calming breath. “It’s okay, B,” she says eventually, her voice much more even. “I made my peace with it a long time ago. I went because of Angel, but I stayed because I knew it was what was best.”

“Willow told me…” Buffy shakes her head. “Willow told me how you got out.” She pauses for a moment, the silence heavy with something Faith can’t decipher. “You didn’t have to stay. You could have broken out any time.”

“What, and miss out on three squares and quality time with Deb and her gang? Nah, wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

“You didn’t _have_ to stay,” Buffy repeats, a little quieter, with a little less conviction.

Faith chuckles humorlessly. “Can you imagine how you guys would have reacted if I had broken myself out of prison? Can you imagine the shit I woulda gone through, the number of people I would have had tracking me down? Who knows, you all might’ve even used it as an excuse to finish the job.” She gestures to her stomach, to the spot on her body that, in another life, holds the evidence of one of their last violent confrontations. Buffy’s eye twitches, the only indication that Faith’s words have rattled her. But Faith waves her off. “I’m not tyrin’ to guilt ya, B. I’m just sayin’ that… Yeah, Buff. I really _did_ have to stay.”

It takes several moments of walking for her to realize that Buffy’s no longer matching her pace. Faith pauses and turns, frowning when she sees Buffy frozen in place a few feet back. “Buff?” she asks, but Buffy is just watching her, just staring at her with this _look_ , this look that Faith wants to call ‘ _distressed’_ but no, that’s not possible, that doesn’t make sense. “Hey, Buffy,” she tries again, moving towards her quickly, reaching out to grab her shoulders because Buffy looks a little wobbly on her feet and that can’t be a good sign. “Are you alright?”

Buffy presses a palm to the flat plane of Faith’s stomach. Faith’s muscles spasm under the unexpected contact.

Faith swallows thickly. “What are you doing?” she asks quietly, her voice barely a whisper.

But Buffy isn’t looking at her. Her gaze is fixed on her own hand; on the way it’s pressing into the ghost of Faith’s old wound. “Does it hurt?” she whispers.

When Faith answers her, a half a beat too late, it’s with a voice that trembles with things unsaid. “I… I don’t have it, here. I can’t feel anything.”

Buffy shakes her head. “Not here. Where we’re from, does it… does it hurt?”

Faith takes a moment to think, to weigh her words carefully. Buffy’s hand burns, it boils her skin, even through the fabric of her shirt. They must make a strange tableau, standing in the middle of an empty sidewalk in the early hours of the morning, her hands limp on Buffy’s shoulders, Buffy’s own pressed against her abdomen.

“Sometimes,” she finally says.

Buffy finally looks up at her, and it kind of startles Faith, the stillness of the moment, how close they’re standing, how close Buffy’s face is to hers. “I can’t imagine…”

Faith’s throat feels extraordinarily, impossibly tight. She doesn’t know where this conversation is going, but she doesn’t think she likes it, doesn’t think she likes the way it’s making her feel, doesn’t think she likes this roiling feeling in her stomach, the way her legs feel shaky and unbalanced.

She shakes her head quickly. “Don’t,” she whispers, more of a beg than anything else.

“No, Faith, I—”

Faith pulls back from her and Buffy’s hands fall away. They sever contact and whatever spell had captured them severs, too.

Faith laughs to hide her discomfort, pulling her jacket a little closer to her to fight against the sudden chill she feels at the loss of body warmth. “Didn’t know you were gonna go all soft on me, B,” she says as a deflection, turning quickly and striding in the direction of Buffy’s house. She doesn’t have to look behind her to know that Buffy is following her closely. “You could just ask me to dinner. Would be a lot faster for ya.”

Buffy’s exasperated sigh follows quickly, just like she expected, and just like that everything feels normal again — Faith cracking jokes to rile Buffy up, Buffy responding with annoyance. (Except Faith’s body is thrumming, her heart is racing, her palms feel sweaty and she’s fighting a blush and she can feel the impression of Buffy’s hands, the lingering warmth of Buffy so close to hers, and her body is _thrumming_.) “Why do you have to do that?” Buffy huffs. “We can’t have a _single_ conversation without you turning it into something else.”

Faith chuckles and risks a glance out of the corner of her eye. Buffy looks a little flushed, too, but that could just be from the cold. She’s breathing a little heavily, but that could just be because Faith is walking very quickly, and Buffy may be having trouble keeping up with her. “Well, you know, I use sex and violence as a way to blunt my own childhood trauma,” Faith says easily, effortlessly. (She doesn’t think about the fact that, two years ago, she wouldn’t have admitted such a personal truth under even the worst duress. She doesn’t think about the fact that she’s already told Buffy more about her life in the past day than she’s told any one person in her entire life. She doesn’t think about it.)

Buffy hums. “You really got your money’s worth out of that therapy, didn’t you?”

“Well it was mandatory, so.”

Buffy groans quietly, a sound that’s more like a scoff than anything else. “Are you coming home, or what?”

If Faith were feeling a little more daring, she would probably comment on Buffy’s characterization of her own house as a ‘home’ — as something she shares with Faith; as something of an equal establishment for the pair of them. If Faith were a little more daring, she would probably make some sly comment about it, do something to really push Buffy’s buttons in a way that would surely provide her with endless entertainment.

As it is, she lets it go.

____________________

_A lifetime ago — before the murders and the attempted murders, before Faith’s coma, before Buffy graduated high school, before prison — there was something that Faith and Buffy didn’t really acknowledge. Something that they never spoke of but that they both knew existed._

_A hunger hung in the air between them. A tingling sensation they both felt whenever they were out on the hunt together. The way Buffy panted from exertion after tackling a group of vamps, the way her gaze met Faith’s, pupils blown and eyes dark with want, the smell of her excitement just barely tickling at Faith’s nose._

_The two H’s. Hungry and horny. Slaying brings it out of both of them._

_They never talked about it, never mentioned those nights they spent patrolling, all those years ago. Back when Faith was crashing at Buffy’s house. When they’d go from dancing at the Bronze, eyes locked in the thick of the crowd as they worked each other to a frenzy, and then on to the graveyard, where they’d channel all of their built up energy and frustration into some serious ass-whoopings. Where they’d seek out fights that were too difficult, begging for the strain and the challenge of it all._

_Their little dance, back and forth. Watching each other. Voyeuristic foreplay._

_They never talked about it. Never talked about the way it made both of their bodies thrum with barely-concealed want. Never talked about the looks they would exchange on their way back to Buffy’s house, never talked about the way Faith would linger, just a few moments too long, in Buffy’s doorway. They never talked about the way Buffy would look at her, eyes heavily-lidded, with an expression that almost read ‘promise.’ Or the way Buffy’s hand would start sliding down to the button of her pants before Faith had even gotten the door closed all the way._

_Super hearing. They both had it. Buffy knew Faith could hear every little thing she did, knew Faith could feel it in the tingling connection they somehow, miraculously, shared. Knew Faith could hear her muted gasps as she fucked herself once, twice, sometimes three times, depending on the night. Knew Faith could hear the way she moaned, knew Faith could hear her own name slip through Buffy’s barely-parted lips like an accident._

_Even if she **couldn’t** hear every one of Buffy’s movements through the too-thin walls of the Summer house, she would have known **exactly** what Buffy was doing. She could **feel** her, could practically **taste** it in the energy of the air. The hairs on her arm would stand on end and something deep within Faith’s core would throb and she’d know. She’d just **know**._

_They never talked about it. Even now, they’ve never discussed it._

_Faith wonders if that makes things better or worse, between them._

_She’s not sure how it could possibly be any worse._

____________________

“I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Faith…”

Faith shrugs. “It’s fine. Gotta sleep in here to keep up appearances, but I ain’t about to kick you out of your own bed. The floor’s as good a place as any.”

Buffy crosses her arms over her chest in that adorable, _I can’t believe you’re making me do this_ sort of way that she has. “I’m not making you sleep on the floor,” she says stubbornly.

“It’s your bed, B. I’m not kicking you out of it.”

“The carpet isn’t that thick. It’s not gonna be comfortable.”

“Believe me, I’ve slept on worse.”

Buffy blinks, a little taken aback. “That…” She shakes her head. “That hardly matters.”

Faith rolls her neck as she kicks off her boots. She shrugs out of her jacket and throws it over the armchair in the corner of the room. _God_ , she’s tired. And Buffy’s _never_ really been great at shutting up. She just wishes B would lighten up and learn how to lose even _one_ single argument so that Faith could get some goddamn _sleep_ , for once. “It’s really not a problem. Just chuck me a couple pillows and I’ll be—”

“We could share?” Buffy cuts her off quickly, but her words turn up a little at the end — a question more than a suggestion.

It makes Faith snort incredulously. “What, _seriously_?” she asks when Buffy doesn’t immediately join her in laughter.

Buffy looks like she’s fighting the urge to chew on her lower lip. “Look, we’re both tired, and the bed’s huge. Plus, what if Dawn walks in in the morning and sees you on the floor? How are we supposed to explain that?” She’s got a point there, but it’s _still_ not exactly convincing. Faith has quite a hard time believing that she would sleep better next to Buffy than by herself on the ground. At this point, she thinks she’d rather take a _literal_ coffin (at least in a coffin she doesn’t have to worry about getting kicked). “Just…” Buffy sighs, probably in a response to Faith’s expression. “Look, I won’t touch you, you don’t touch me. It’ll be fine.” Faith pulls a face that makes Buffy roll her eyes. “It’s not like I’ve never shared a _bed_ with someone before. You’ve had sleepovers. This isn’t different.”

And yeah, alright, that might be true for Buffy, but isn’t for Faith. Because she hasn’t _ever_ shared a bed with someone before. She’s never _had_ to. She’s never had _sleepovers_ , never had late nights exchanging giggling conversations with a bunch of girlfriends, never curled herself around a boyfriend or a lover while they drifted off together. She went from being a kid with a pretty fucked up home life to living on the streets to dingy hotel rooms to hospital beds to prison bunks. She’s never slept _with_ someone before. Even the people she’s fucked, the random strangers she’s hooked up with, no matter where she’s been, it’s never… it’s never ended in, like, _cuddling_. She’s always made them leave, or else _she’s_ left, or snuck out a window, or something. She doesn’t… she doesn’t _share_ her sleeping space. She doesn’t share her _bed_. (She’s not sure she even knows _how_ to.)

The first time she’s even woken up _next_ to someone else was this morning, when she woke up with Buffy. And that _hardly_ counts, because she didn’t _choose_ to sleep in the same bed as her, didn’t have any say in the matter, didn’t go into the night thinking ‘Oh, it’ll be super nice to wake up tomorrow morning with Buffy’s face buried in my chest.’ So. That doesn’t _count_.

But she doesn’t know how to _say_ any of that. She’s not sure… she’s already told Buffy so much about herself in the past twenty hours, and it’s… it’s too much. She’s already shared too much, exposed too much of her past, left herself visible in too many ways. She’s not… how is she supposed to _say_ any of that to Buffy? She can’t just be expected to dig deep into her staggering intimacy issues, into her deep-seated fears about vulnerability and violence, can’t be expected to leave herself open and unprotected with someone else in her _bed_ while she _sleeps_. It’s not… She _can’t_.

But she doesn’t know how to say it. Not only does she _really_ not want to open that fucking can of worms tonight, but they don’t have _time_ for it right now. It’s late, they’re exhausted, and her emotional baggage is something that’s really better left ignored when it’s two in the morning and Buffy is staring at her across a large, unmade (and extraordinarily comfortable, if her memory serves her correctly) bed.

Faith considers her position for several long moments, weighing her possibilities. She thinks about how huffy and annoying B is gonna get if she keeps fighting her on this. Thinks about how much Buffy is gonna push, how much she’s gonna demand an explanation, demand an answer, demand compliance. She thinks about how exhausted she is, how much her bones and muscles ache, how her head is starting to throb and all she wants to do is curl up somewhere and sleep for the next ten hours. So she finally sighs, clenches her jaw and her fists, and says, “Fine. We’ll share. But if you kick me, I’m kicking you out.”

Buffy rolls her eyes. “You better not snore.”

“Never had any complaints before.” It’s a little bit of a misleading sentence, considering… well, considering no one’s ever really had the chance to learn. But it makes Buffy grumble and stalk off into the bathroom, so… it works, at least. It gives Faith at least a few minutes to steel herself for what’s sure to be a restless night.

____________________

It’s _not_ a restless night. Buffy was right: they’re both exhausted, and once her head hits the pillow, Faith is asleep within seconds.

And she won’t ever admit it, not out loud, but it might be the best night of sleep she’s gotten in her entire life. Even if, during the middle of the night, Faith wakes up to Buffy’s arm slung loosely around her middle.  Even if Buffy _does_ make little breathless, muttering noises while she sleeps. Even if, once she wakes up, Faith notices that Buffy’s pressed her nose against the nape of Faith’s neck, her breath hot and tickling and sending shudders all the way down Faith’s spine.

Even _with_ all of that, it’s still probably the best night of sleep of her entire life. And if Faith doesn’t push Buffy’s arm off of her immediately once she notices it’s there, if she doesn’t draw away from the press of Buffy against her back as soon as she feels it, well… that’s only because she’s trying not to wake her up.

That’s the only reason.

____________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [ tumblr ](https://morningsound15.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t know,” Faith says. “Things seem pretty sweet on this end. You got the house, the job, the little sis…”
> 
> “A wife I never asked for?”
> 
> Faith’s mouth quirks up at the corner. “Guess you gotta take the good with the bad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been trying to update this weekly but sometimes I'm off by a few days. Sorry about that, friends.

____________________

Faith wakes up feeling refreshed and well-rested. That may have something to do with the fact that she wakes up entirely alone, sprawled across Buffy’s bed like a starfish, but honestly it’s hard to say.

By the time she finally makes her way downstairs — after a long and desperately-needed shower — Buffy looks like she’s already made it through at least three cups of coffee, if the empty mugs littering the counter are any indication. She’s bent over the kitchen table with several ancient books open in front of her, scribbling furious notes into an already-cluttered legal pad.

Faith regards her as she towels her hair roughly. “Didn’t know you were the researching type, now,” she says as she slips into the empty chair directly across from her.

Buffy pushes a mug of coffee in her direction without even glancing up from her work. “Well, since apparently I’m a librarian, here, I figured we’d probably have something in this house I could use to find… _anything_ helpful.” She looks up then, her eyes wide behind the large reading glasses she has on. Faith bites her lip to hold in her laugh at the unexpectedly comical image. “I talked to Giles this morning,” Buffy says, pushing the frames up the bridge of her nose. “He hasn’t made much progress.”

Faith nods as she takes a long drink from the mug Buffy offered, her damp towel hanging loose around her shoulders. “What about you?” she asks, her eyes darting down to the stack of books Buffy must have spent all morning rifling through. “Any progress?”

“Same deal,” Buffy says, shaking her head. “It’s hard to find information when all we’re going on is a physical description and an impossible scenario I’m still not entirely sure I haven’t dreamt up.”

Faith hums, reaching over to pull Buffy’s discarded notes towards her. “You talk to Willow?” she asks, skimming her eyes over the words. Something she sees makes her pause and do a double-take. She squints down at Buffy’s writing. “Wait… why do you have ‘ _Riley’_ written here and underlined, like… five times?”

Buffy shrugs. “I think we should call him.”

Faith stares at her, mouth open. “Sorry, you think we should _call_ _him_? _Why_?”

“Stop. Don’t be like that.”

“ _I’m_ not the one who wants to waste her time tracking down her discount G.I. Joe wannabe ex-boyfriend.”

Buffy glares. “Contacting Riley is a smart option. He works for the government. Or,” she pauses for a moment, expression darkening, “well… at least I _think_ he does. He does where we come from. And if he still works for the Initiative here, then that means he has connections with people who know a lot of things about demons. He knows how to fight them, how to track them, how to hunt them. At the very least, he might know something about the guy we fought the other night.”

“Sure,” Faith says with a sour expression on her face, “and if you want to see if he’s just as hunky in this dimension as ours, then that’s just a bonus.”

“God, what is your _damage_ , Faith?” Buffy asks with a long sigh. “Riley and I broke up _years_ ago. What, are you _jealous_ or something? I thought we got over the point in our lives where we were fighting over men.” She stands from the table, her chair squeaking against the hard wood floors.

Faith’s jaw twitches. “Whatever, Buffy. Call him if you want. I don’t care.”

“You shouldn’t be fighting me on this,” Buffy says as she stalks away, “because you _know_ it’s a smart plan.”

And the shitty thing is, Faith _knows_ Buffy’s right. It _is_ a smart plan. With no new leads and with Giles still buried nose-deep in his work, they need to try _something_. And since apparently they can’t go to Willow or Xander about any of their Slayer dealings, and since Buffy’s Off-Brand-Disney-Prince-Fantasy _probably_ still lives in town… well. It’s a smart plan. So smart that it’s almost hard to believe B came up with it all on her own.

Riley’s a safe bet. Someone close to Buffy but not _that_ close; someone who she used to know but who now she no longer speaks to; someone who is unlikely to be a big part of their alternate-dimension’s established lives, so going to him for help won’t lead to too many disruptions.

Truthfully, it’s a smart plan. But that doesn’t mean Faith has to _like_ it.

Buffy finds her fifteen minutes later on a chair in the family room, sitting with her arms and legs crossed tightly, her hair still damp and un-brushed. “I called Riley,” she says, poking her head into the room. “He was surprised to hear from me, but agreed to meet us in twenty.” Faith grunts noncommittally. Buffy sighs. “Are you gonna sulk all day or are you coming with me?”

She turns and heads for the door without waiting to see if Faith follows after her.

Faith grumbles unhappily but, of course, she follows.

____________________

He eyes them both warily when they walk into the mostly-empty coffee shop almost a half-hour later, and though he gives Buffy a quick but tight hug, he only nods curtly in Faith’s direction. “Nice to see you, Faith,” he says.

She nods back. “Iowa Boy.”

Buffy shoots her a quick look before directing her bright smile back in his direction. “Hi, Riley. Thank you so much for meeting with us.”

“Sure,” he says, gesturing to a table in the back corner, out of the way of the other patrons. His jacket is flung over one chair, a cup of coffee steaming in front of his place. “I have to admit, I was a little surprised to get your call. It’s not every day that Sunnydale’s Slayers want to talk to you face-to-face.” Buffy and Faith exchange a surprised glance as they sink into adjacent chairs. Riley smiles at them understandingly, though of course he can’t _actually_ understand.

But he is, if nothing else, observant, so when they’re finally all settled around the table, he takes one look at the serious expressions on their faces and says, with an air of good-humor, “Something tells me this isn’t just a friendly college reunion.”

Buffy shakes her head. “Afraid not.”

“Got it.” He nods and pulls a pen out of his coat pocket. “So, what do you need from us?”

Buffy frowns slightly. “From you? Plural you?”

He nods. “You only ever call if you need something from the Initiative.” He grabs a small black notebook from his back pocket. “Tell me what your request is and I’ll send it up to my bosses. Sorry about the last time, I know we agreed no Army guys would patrol over in the west corridor, but we got a call about—”

Buffy reaches a hand out and stills his pen. Riley stops talking immediately. “We have to tell you something.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound good.”

Buffy shakes her head. “It’s… it’s gonna sound crazy. And… you might not believe us. You might think that we’re crazy. But, well…” She glances at Faith out of the corner of her eye. Faith puts a hand on Buffy’s knee under the table, out of view from their companion, and squeezes once. Buffy nods and straightens her shoulders like she’s steeling herself for battle. “The night before last, Faith and I were hunting some kind of demon. We went to bed and then woke up yesterday morning… here. In… in the wrong time. In the wrong… universe, maybe, or dimension. Or something.” Riley looks back at her, his face carefully absent of emotion. “We aren’t from this place,” Buffy repeats. “We think we might have been cursed, or put under some sort of spell, or maybe we’re stuck in some kind of dream or we fell through a portal into another dimension. But either way… we don’t belong here. And we need your help getting home.”

Riley doesn’t speak for a few long, tense moments. He simply stares at the two of them, his eyes squinting ever so slightly, his brow furrowed in concentration. His eyes move slowly over Buffy’s face, and then over Faiths, before he says, simply, “Ah.”

“You don’t seem very surprised,” Faith says, her tone just barely on this side of accusatory. (Her hand is still resting lightly on top of Buffy’s knee, but they’re both choosing to ignore it.)

“Well, I’m not gonna lie and tell you I _expected_ this. Or tell you that I even really know what you’re talking about. But I believe you.”

Buffy blinks, clearly surprised (and maybe a little suspicious). “What, just like that?”

Riley shrugs. “It makes a lot of sense with the reports we’ve been hearing on the ground. There’s been an uptick in demon sightings recently, and from what our scouts tell us, they’re pretty unsettled. There’s been a lot of talk about increased Hellmouth activity, all sorts of strange magical occurrences around town…” He shakes his head. “So the two of you have been forced into an alternate dimension, huh?”

“That’s about the gist of it, Whitebread.”

“Faith,” Buffy admonishes quietly. She shifts her leg slightly, and Faith finally retracts her hand, choosing instead to fold her arms over her chest as she leans back in her chair. “Sorry about her,” Buffy says to Riley, “no one ever taught her how to have a polite conversation.”

Riley just chuckles. “It’s alright. We’ve certainly had worse encounters. Isn’t that right, Faith?” he asks with a wry grin, winking at her across the table like they share some kind of inside joke.

She squints at him and purses her lips. “Can’t say I know what you mean.”

“Yeah,” Buffy cuts in, “that’s… we aren’t _from_ here. We don’t have any of the memories the Buffy and Faith who live _here_ are supposed to have. So…”

“Ah. Right.” He clears his throat. “Well, this is probably going to be awkward, then.”

And, well… he’s not wrong. Talking to Riley is definitely, at the very least, more awkward than talking to Giles. But it makes Faith smirk all the same. He’s off-balance the whole time they talk, and he keeps looking at her like she’s about to reach across the table and slug him. Which, again, makes her smirk. Because serves him right. And she has a mean right-hook, so he _should_ be scared of her. (She crosses her arms over her chest she makes sure to flex her biceps, just a little, just enough so that they strain against the leather of her jacket.)

It’s a taxing twenty minutes of explanations and trading of information. They tell him everything that they can, all the information that they know about their situation, about the demon, about how they know they’re in an alternate dimension and not just experiencing a very vivid and shared hallucination.

(Well, Buffy tells him everything. Faith stays mostly silent, watching and adding information only when Buffy looks to her for assistance. She knows how Buffy feels about being the head honcho, leading the charge and all that. Which is fine by her. She’s more than happy to take a back seat for this particular exchange. She’s been taking a backseat with Buffy and the Slayer business ever since she first came to town, all those years ago. This is nothing new.)

Riley takes dutiful notes in his tiny little black book. He writes down nearly everything Buffy says, taking special care to prod them for as much information as he can, especially regarding the demon’s appearance. “Approximate height?” he asks. Then, “Skin texture? Eye color? Speed, strength? Any other abilities? Poisonous? Venomous? Carnivorous?” They do their best to answer him, and hope that it’ll be enough.

“Thank you, again, for agreeing to help us with this,” Buffy says sincerely after a very long round of questions, her hands wrapped around her own cup of coffee. (It must be her fifth one of the day — at least, if Faith’s been counting properly. She has no idea how B isn’t vibrating out of her skin, right about now, with that amount of caffeine in her tiny body.)

“Of course, I’m happy to help.” He flips his notebook shut and taps the top with the palm of his hand. “I’ll get this information back to my people at the Initiative. This isn’t any kind of demon I’m familiar with, but maybe we’ll get lucky and someone will know something. If not, I’ll put a couple researchers on it, and I’ll tell my men in the field to keep a look-out for your guy.”

“Thank you, Riley. This really means a lot.”

He nods. “It’s really no problem. Anything to help the two of you. We _are_ on the same side, after all.” He glances down at his watch. “Looks like I still have a few minutes left on my break. Do you two have any other questions? About life here, in this world, maybe?” He gestures around with a smile. “Any new players in town we should be worried about? Or maybe you need help with something else?”

Faith shakes her head. “I’m good, thanks.”

He shrugs. “How about you, Buff?”

Buffy chews contemplatively on her lower lip for a few seconds. “Well… _if_ you have time…”

“Sure, what do you need?” Riley asks with a smile.

“How do you know Faith?”

Faith pulls a face. “Why is _that_ important?”

Buffy ignores her, while Riley just quirks his head in Buffy’s direction. “Not sure I’m following.”

“You said earlier that you’ve had bad encounters. I was wondering what those were, if… if you guys know each other, here.”

“Is that wrong?” he asks, perplexed. “Where you come from, do we not—”

Buffy cuts him off quickly. “It’s… kind of complicated.”

He leans forward with a twinkle in his eye. “Ah, c’mon,” he implores, “tell me just a little something. It’s not every day you get the chance to hear about alternate-dimension versions of yourself. I’m curious. Give me a couple things I can tell the guys when this all blows over.”

Buffy shoots Faith a questioning look, as if to ask: _What do you think we should do?_

Faith just shrugs. “Up to you, B. He’s _your_ ex, not mine.”

Riley looks between the two of them, clearly surprised. “We dated?”

Buffy smiles, but it looks more like a grimace than anything else. “For a little while, yeah. And Faith, well… Faith tried to kill you.”

He turns his attention from Buffy to Faith. Faith just shrugs. “Only the once.” She pauses for a second and thinks. “Well… maybe technically twice. Don’t take it personally, though. I tried to kill just about everyone.”

Whatever reaction Faith had been expecting from this revelation, what she gets is something entirely different. Riley throws his head back, a booming laugh erupting from his throat. “Well, that’s definitely different!” he says through a wheezing breath, wiping at his eyes. “Here, Faith’s just the gal who beat the crap out of me because I wouldn’t stop hitting on her girlfriend.”

“Did I really?” Faith grins. “Awesome.”

“Yeah, I asked Buffy out a few times, but she was never interested. After the third time, you came barging into our house and laid me out with one punch. You’re crazy strong, by the way. And at the time, I didn’t know about the whole Slayer thing. If I _had_ …” He shakes his head. “Well, even _I’m_ not dumb enough to mess with the Slayer’s gal.” Faith shifts in her seat and pointedly doesn’t look in Buffy’s direction. “Anyway,” Riley continues, “I got the memo and laid off. Never really apologized properly but what can I say, my ego was bruised. And also my face. All the other guys gave me a lot of flack for it.”

“Well, you deserved it,” Faith says. “Learn to take no for an answer, maybe?”

He chuckles again. “You said the same thing then, too.”

Faith opens her mouth to say something in response but nothing comes out. It’s like all of her words have failed her.

Buffy, either sensing her discomfort or feeling some of her own, clears her throat and hurries the conversation along. “But how did you know we were Slayers? _No one_ in our lives know. Not Willow, not Dawn…”

“Oh, Willow, she’s your redhead friend, right?” Buffy nods. “Well,” Riles says, folding his hands in front of him, “I don’t know about all _that_ , but I found out sometime in your second year of college, I think. After I was your TA. Oh, and after Faith knocked me out.” Faith doesn’t even bother to try to dampen the malicious grin that spreads across her lips. Riley continues, “The Initiative always knew about the existence of the Slayer, but we never knew who she was. _Definitely_ didn’t know there were two of you.”

“So how _did_ you find out?”

“Just… ran into you on a patrol one night,” he says, his face curiously and inexplicably flushed. “Heard some strange noises, thought you were in trouble, came to try and help.” He rubs at the back of his neck. “But, uh… well, you guys had it covered.”

Faith’s grin turns practically devilish. “You totally caught us doin’ the nasty, didn’t ya?”

“ _Faith_!” Buffy admonishes, her own face heating up. Riley clears his throat loudly and doesn’t respond, which is all the confirmation Faith needs to know the truth.

“Well!” Riley says, clapping his hands with an air of finality. “This has been…” A long pause, “ _interesting_.” He glances down at his watch. “But I’m afraid I have a job I have to be getting back to. My lunch break ended about five minutes ago.” He stands from his spot and Buffy and Faith move to mirror him. “I’ll get some of my people out there, see if I can’t find your guy. And I’ll be in touch if I hear anything.”

“Thanks again, Riley,” Buffy says, arms wrapped around her stomach like maybe she wants to reach out and hug him, but doesn’t know if that’s allowed.

Faith remains silent at first, but at the feeling of Buffy’s nudging elbow, she clears her throat and says, “Yeah, thanks.”

“Of course.” He smiles again. “I really do hope you two can find your way back home. Hopefully next time we meet it’ll be under better circumstances.”

“Dare to dream,” Faith says back, with a little wave and only enough sarcasm so that Buffy can detect it.

With one final hug for Buffy and an awkward handshake for Faith, Riley makes his way towards the door. Faith finally thinks that she’s about to be free of him when, of course, Buffy has to speak up.

“Sorry, Riley,” she calls, and he pauses with his hand on the doorknob. “Just…” Buffy starts, looking a little unsure of herself, “before you go, I was wondering…”

“What do you need?” he asks, not unkindly.

She takes one quick breath in and says, all in a rush, “Do you know where Spike is?”

“Who?”

“Spike. He’s… he’s a vampire,” she finishes in a quiet voice, eyes glancing around furtively at the rest of the shop. But she has nothing to worry about in terms of eavesdroppers, since they’re basically by themselves. The only other person lingering around is the bored looking teenager behind the counter, and he has a pair of headphones over his ears and some sort of portable music player in his hands. His head bops in time to some tune only he can hear, so Faith knows that they aren’t being overheard.

“Yeah,” Faith supplies, noticing the somewhat-pained look on Buffy’s face and the fact that she seems to have faltered in her storytelling. Faith figures it’s probably because it would be too hard to explain Buffy’s penchant for fucking the not-so-evil undead, and Buffy looks like she _really_ doesn’t wanna get into all that baggage right now, so Faith takes the lead for the first time in their conversation. “Terrible blonde dye job. Scar over one eye. Sometimes has a chip in his head courtesy of your organization that stops him from biting humans.”

Riley shrugs. “Never heard of him. We certainly never tagged him. But if he was around when you were younger, he might have been killed off in the Sunnydale High Graduation Massacre.” At the horrified look on their faces, he winces slightly. “Right, sorry, no memories. I guess it’s kind of a misleading name.” He takes a few steps back toward their table, lowering his voice ever so slightly. “I’m talking about the Sunnydale High Graduation of 1999. Huge purge of demons and vamps both at the ceremony and right after. The mayor turned into a giant snake. It was kind of this whole big thing.” He shrugs. “Anyway, silver lining is that almost no students died, and the whole town was quiet and basically demon-free for a good eighteen months or so, before the Hellmouth activity brought them back. You know how it is… moths to a flame, and all.” He pauses for a moment, thinking. “But now that I think about it, I’m guessing I have you two to thank for that. So, thanks.” He touches his forehead in a tiny salute. “You made my job a lot easier for a good long while.”

Faith smiles weakly while Buffy squeezes the back of her chair in a grip so strong, Faith can hear the metal start to crunch under the force of her fingers. Faith speaks when it looks like Buffy isn’t going to. “Yeah,” she says quietly, “happy to help.”

Riley smiles and nods to them again. “It was nice catching up. I’ll call you if we get any news on your demon friend. Best of luck to you both.”

The bell above the door chimes as he exits, and Faith immediately breathes a lot easier. Buffy looks like her knees are about to give way, so Faith carefully guides her back into her previously-empty seat.

Buffy stares at her hands while Faith stares at her. She’s not sure what Buffy was hoping for, asking after Spike. Maybe some kind of lingering optimism that he was still out there somewhere, still around, still okay, maybe even turned good somewhere along the way, all on his own. She’s not sure _what_ Buffy was hoping for, but the confirmation that her almost-maybe-not-quite-boyfriend really has been dusted… Well.

They stay there for another few long, quiet minutes.

____________________

Faith has only lived in this world for 2 days, so it’s kind of wild how stepping into Buffy’s house immediately puts her at ease. She hasn’t felt at ease in this house in… God, in _years_. Not since before the whole ‘going evil and killing people’ thing. So, it’s a pretty bizarre occurrence.

Buffy collapses into an armchair in the family room almost the moment they step inside. She brings a hand to her temple, pressing hard on the pressure point there, like she’s trying to ward off a headache.

Faith sinks onto the couch opposite her, placing her palms flat against her knees. She bites at the inside of her lip, tapping her fingers in the silence.

She knows what Buffy’s doing. Buffy’s doing what she _always_ does: getting caught up in her own thoughts of _what could I have done differently._ She’s probably sitting over there thinking about Spike, and what happened to him, and how she wasn’t here to stop it. About the fact that he loves her (loved her?), about the fact that she (probably) loves him. About the fact that he’s gone, and she might never get to see him again. (Can’t think about that now.)

Faith herself is all-too familiar with those feelings of guilt, of missed opportunities, of _it might have been._ She doesn’t want Buffy going down a similar spiraling path. Not now. Not when she doesn’t have to. Not when they still have so many things they have to do, so many avenues to exhaust. Not when they still need to find a way home.

So she does the only thing she really knows how to do: she antagonizes her. Because when in doubt, when trying to pull B out of a huff, she goes back to the old tried-and-true method of _pick a fight any fight and stick with it._ “So do you _wanna_ talk about the fact that we totally swapped spit yesterday?” Faith asks finally, bringing one arm up to rest her chin on her fist. “Or…”

Buffy groans and pulls her hand away from her forehead. She frowns in Faith’s direction, not exactly angry but _definitely_ not pleased. “Please, let’s not. You’ll make me lose my lunch.”

Faith rolls her eyes to hide the fact that she’s actually relieved. “Well geez, Buff. No need to get personal with it. I was only wonderin’ if you needed to process any feelings of the gay panic variety, that’s all. Sorry for trying to help.”

“Well, there’s no panic. Look at me, I’m cool as a cucumber.”

Faith snorts. “You sound like Giles when he tries to copy the way young people talk.”

Buffy laughs at that, a short bark that bursts from her throat, and the unexpected sound surprises them both. She pauses, a hand pressed to her mouth, and blinks a few times back at Faith’s grin. “You’re trying to distract me,” she says after a moment, like she’s only just realized.

Faith nods. “Nothing gets you out of a mood like a good fight. Is it working?”

“It might be.” Buffy squints, looking a little suspicious.

“No ulterior motives here, B,” Faith says, pushing herself off the couch and strolling lazily towards the kitchen. “Just tryin’ to get you outta your funk.”

Buffy follows after her immediately. “Why are you being helpful? And… _nice_? It’s so unlike you.”

“What, I can’t be nice? I’m a nice person, B.” She flips on the radio as she makes her way towards the fridge, almost without thinking, searching for some background noise to fill the silence in the spaces between their conversation. The house feels so big, without Dawn; without Willow and Tara; without the baby Potentials running all around the damn place. Plus, it’s been so long since she actually got a chance to listen to the radio; it feels like a luxury she shouldn’t be allowing herself. But they’re _safe_ , here. There’s no First Evil lurking around the corner, no group of kick-happy Slayerettes they have to worry about keeping alive, no kid to worry and fuss over. Not having them around makes everything quiet, but it also means that they’re _safe_. She can turn on the radio and keep the volume low, just underneath her conversation with Buffy. She can turn on the radio and not feel _guilty_ about it.

After a few turns of the dial, something soft and crooning comes out of the speakers, and Faith hums along almost under her breath, without thinking. It’s a song she thinks she recognizes, though gun to her head she doubts she could place it. She continues to hum as she rummages around the refrigerator. She grabs a few cold cuts and some cheese — just enough to make a decent sandwich — and pulls two plates from the cupboard without even thinking about the movement.

When she turns around a few moments later, Buffy is leaning against the counter, head down and eyes closed. “God, this is such a mess,” she whispers, probably to herself, but she said it loud enough for Faith to hear, so… now it’s _her_ business, too. Faith doesn’t know if she’s talking about their specific situation or Spike or Riley or whatever, but she thinks it’s probably a little combination of all of them. She pauses with her knife suspended above a slice of bread and watches Buffy silently.

Buffy sighs deeply and says, a little louder, “Everything about this is… such a mess.”

Faith watches her closely for a few seconds, her lips pursed. “Dance with me,” she finally says, voice confident even when her fingers feel like shaking.

“ _What_?”

“C’mon,” Faith says with a shrug. She drops the knife down on the counter and deposits her half-made sandwich on one of the plates. “Just to take your mind off things.”

Buffy shakes her head. “I _really_ don’t think bumping and grinding at the Bronze is the best use of our time, Faith. Besides, we have to patrol tonight.”

“ _No_ , dummy. I meant… here.” She slips around the counter, takes Buffy into her arms without preamble, and starts to gently lead her around the kitchen, gliding and swaying to the music.

Buffy, though she’s clearly surprised, folds herself easily into Faith’s light embrace. “What are you doing?” she asks, her voice a little high and a little suspicious, but she doesn’t pull away.

“Dancing,” Faith says simply, and then reevaluates. “Well… _kind of_ dancing.”

Buffy lets Faith carefully pull her through the kitchen, which if Faith is being honest she did _not_ totally expect (she was kind of expecting a fist to the jaw, but this is definitely a nicer alternative). Buffy blinks a few times like she’s trying to get her bearings, her gaze locked on to Faith’s. “I didn’t know you knew how to dance like this,” she says quietly, which Faith takes as a good sign (and also as a sign that she doesn’t need to stop).

“I know how to _sway_ ,” Faith counters. “This is _hardly_ dancing.”

“Still.”

“Just let me do something nice for you, yeah? You look like you need it, after your day of exes and disappointments.”

Buffy shakes her head. “Not disappointment. We learned a lot.” She shifts her hand a little so that her fingers catch in the hair at the nape of Faith’s neck. She brushes them slowly, and Faith has to work hard not to close her eyes and sink into the touch. “And Riley promised to help us and keep a lookout, so… it was productive.”

Faith hums and slides her hand a little higher on Buffy’s back as they continue to sway. “Productive,” she agrees in a soft voice.

The longer they move to the music, drifting their way slowly around Buffy’s empty kitchen, the more Buffy relaxes against her. After a few more long moments, she even allows her eyes to fall shut, bringing her head down to rest lightly against Faith’s shoulder. Faith’s heart jumps at the sensation and her stomach clenches almost unpleasantly, but she just swallows and doesn’t say anything. “Please don’t make any awful comments,” Buffy mutters, breath hot against the exposed skin of Faith’s neck, “I’m just super tired. This doesn’t mean I like you, or anything.”

Faith chuckles. “I know, B,” she says, wrapping her arm loosely around the other woman’s waist. “Doesn’t mean I like you, either.”

“Glad we’re in agreement.”

“Agreeing. Sort of a first, for us. We should take a picture to remember.”

Buffy sighs in a way that is probably meant to indicate exasperation, but Faith thinks that it sounds more endearing than anything. “And there you go, ruining a perfectly good moment,” Buffy mumbles, but she makes no effort to move away from Faith, no effort to stop the gentle sway of their bodies, no effort to turn off the music. She can complain all she wants, but through the complaints she still sinks a little deeper into Faith’s hold and lets herself drift to the calm, quiet melody.

“You know I always thought this was a cliché first dance song.”

Buffy and Faith immediately spring apart. “Dawn!” Buffy exclaims, combing her fingers roughly through her hair like she’s some high school girl whose mom caught her Frenching the pool boy. (Faith, for her part, pulls at the bottom of her shirt and keeps her eyes trained on her shoes. But that’s only because she’s thinking about whether or not she should swap them out before they go patrolling tonight. It’s definitely not because she’s trying to hide a blush.) “What are you doing here?” Buffy asks, hurrying over to the radio and turning it off abruptly. “Why aren’t you in school?”

Dawn looks at her like she’d grown a second head overnight. “It’s a Saturday? I was just at the mall with some friends. I left you a note.” She points to the fridge behind Buffy’s head and there, sure enough, is a piece of scrap paper with Dawn’s scribbled writing on it.

“Oh. Right. Saturday, yeah. I guess…” Buffy coughs into her fist. “Guess I forgot the day.”

Dawn shoots her another look. “You’re being weird again,” she says, sidestepping them in order to get to the fridge. “Do we have any orange juice? Or do I need to go to the store?”

Faith slips from the room without another word, her feet taking her quickly up the stairs, two at a time, until she makes it to the upstairs bathroom. She shuts the door firmly behind her and leans her back against it, breathing heavily like she’s just chased a demon all the way across town. Her hands feel a little shaky so she clenches them into fists at her sides, closing her eyes and using the door to support all of her weight. Her heart is hammering inside her chest and _God_ ; she doesn’t even know _why_.

She steps forward and turns on the tap, taking the opportunity to splash icy water onto her face. She shivers as some of the liquid drips down the back of her shirt, tickling all the way down her spine.

She stares at herself in the bathroom mirror, face flushed and eyes wide. She stares at herself for a good long while.

(It should be a lot harder than it is, pretending to be B’s wife, pretending to like cohabitation and parenting and sharing a space and sharing responsibilities. It should be a lot harder pretending to be in love with her.)

(It should be a lot harder than it is.)

____________________

Faith has effectively gotten herself under control by the time patrolling comes around, and she handles herself _very_ successfully and in a not-at-all-embarrassing way for the three hours they spend scouring the town. They come up short on finding their demon, but they do get to stake a few vamps, and Buffy even gets a chance to use a big ass sword on some big guy with a beard and huge, spiraling horns. And they might be 5 years older, in this dimension, but they’re still in rockin’ shape, so the slayage goes as easy as it ever has.

So. All in all, Faith will have to chalk this one up as a win.

So now it’s around 2 in the morning, and they’re meandering back towards Buffy’s house ( _their_ house, technically). Faith is kicking some loose gravel down the road, the toes of her shoes scuffing against the ground (she never did end up changing them). Buffy walks next to her, and their elbows brush every so often. Faith thinks that they’re both pretending it’s accidental, even if it’s not.

Faith shoves her hands into her pockets and abandons the gravel momentarily in favor of tipping her head back and looking up at the sky. The stars glimmer brightly against a clear black backdrop; the only thing that stops her from seeing more are the streetlamps they pass underneath every fifty feet or so.

Faith doesn’t know enough about astronomy or planets or any of that shit to know whether or not the night sky looks different, here, but she thinks it might. Like maybe the stars have shifted. Or they’re just different. Like they’ve been formed into constellations different from the ones Faith has only a glancing knowledge of. Maybe. It’s hard to tell. At the very least, she _feels_ different when she looks at it. That has to count for something.

She’s not sure how long it’s been since she and Buffy last exchanged words — maybe a few grunts right before they went after that last vamp — so it makes sense that her throat feels a little rough when she finally does speak: “Would it really be so terrible if we were stuck here?” she says softly, eyes still on the stars above her.

She doesn’t look at her, but Faith can still hear Buffy’s audible sigh. “Faith…” Buffy says heavily, like she’s exhausted with even just the thought of it.

Faith shakes her head as they keep walking, her head still tipped up. “No, I’m serious. Would it be so terrible? I mean, I’m not saying it’s my _goal_ or anything, but…” She shrugs and finally brings her head back down, chancing a glance in Buffy’s direction. “I don’t know,” she says. “Things seem pretty sweet on this end. You got the house, the job, the little sis…”

“A wife I never asked for?”

Faith’s mouth quirks up at the corner. “Guess you gotta take the good with the bad.” Buffy lets out a puff of air through her nose that might have been a laugh, but might just have been a breath. Faith soldiers on. “I mean, think about it, B. There’s no big bad First Evil, here. No Potentials you gotta train and mother. We’re _safe_ , here,” she says, echoing her thoughts from earlier, from when she was standing in Buffy’s kitchen. From when they were dancing, swaying together, taking a moment’s pause, a moment’s break for the first time in _years_ to just… _be_ something other than the responsible Slayers they’ve always _had_ to be. To be something _together_ besides enemies and rivals and killer and would-be killer.

Faith continues on: “Like, we’re not about to throw ourselves into certain doom fighting Caleb and his Bringers. There’s still a Watcher’s Council. Here, at least… at least we know that if we go, there’ll be people left to carry the torch and keep the Slayer line alive. That’s more than we can say about _home_.”

Buffy shakes her head. “But we _can’t_ stay here. We don’t _belong_ here. These aren’t our lives; these people aren’t our friends… We can’t just sit around living out the lives of two people whose bodies we got shoved into. That isn’t right.”

“Why does everything have to be about right and wrong, with you?” Faith sighs. “All I’m saying is that, worst comes to worst and we can’t find a way to get home… Well, as far as alternate dimensions go, it looks like we landed in kinda the best possible one.”

“Yeah, that’s easy for you to say,” Buffy mumbles, her voice just on the other side of biting. And suddenly, the companionable mood Faith _thought_ they had fallen into dissipates on the wind.

Faith stops in her tracks, her nostrils flaring. “And what the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?” Buffy shakes her head and moves to walk away, but Faith grabs her by the upper arm. “No, I’m serious. What the _hell_ does that mean?”

Buffy yanks her arm out of Faith’s grip. “Why the hell are you even _here_ , Faith?”

“Look, B, I got dropped into this, same as you. The least you could do would be to—”

“Haven’t you _noticed_ anything?” Buffy hisses, her eyes flashing under the light of the streetlamp they’ve stopped under. They’re on Buffy’s street, but the house feels about a million miles away, what with the tension crackling between them. “This is _my_ life we got dropped into. _Mine_. Not _yours_. This is _my_ home, _my_ family, _my_ friends, _my_ Watcher. So why the hell are you _here_? Why aren’t you off in your _own_ parallel dimension, bothering someone who gives a shit?”

Faith’s fists clench at her sides. “Well, maybe it mighta occurred to you that I don’t exactly have that many people to parallel-dimension my way into visiting.”

Buffy scoffs. “Of course,” she says, her voice calculating and almost cruel for the way it cuts. “Doesn’t matter the world. No matter where you are, seems like the people who matter to you can’t seem to stay alive.”

Faith stares at her, eyes cold and unblinking. “Fuck you, Buffy.” She turns on her heel and immediately stomps off in the direction of Buffy’s house. She’s had enough of this fucking bullshit, enough of Buffy playing hot and cold with her fucking emotions, enough of Buffy not being able to decide whether or not to be civil with her or to hate her, enough of this stupid fucking Hell dimension and enough of stupid fucking demons and enough of Buffy and her prissy arrogance, her fucking _entitlement_ , her holier-than-thou attitude and her God damn jealousy issues. She’s sick of it.

“Yeah, well, fuck you, too!” Buffy calls from behind her. Faith ignores her. She continues on her way towards Buffy’s house.

If Buffy doesn’t want anything to do with her, that’s _fine_. First thing in the morning, she’s outta here. Consequences be damned. Buffy can find her own fucking way home; see if _she_ cares.

“Hey!” Buffy calls again, and Faith can hear her feet slapping against the pavement as she hurries to catch up with her. Faith starts walking faster, her ears red and her head pounding and absolutely fuming because how _dare_ Buffy do this to her _again_? Like she fucking _asked_ for this? Like she fucking wanted _any_ of this?

“Faith, wait,” Buffy tries again, grabbing Faith by the forearm. “I didn’t—”

She pulls Faith around to face her, and Faith uses the momentum to bring her other arm around, swinging it full-speed in the direction of Buffy’s jaw. Buffy sees the blow coming just a second before it hits, because her eyes widen and she jerks back, so Faith’s knuckles only just barely glance off her chin. Still, it was a powerful enough hit to break a regular guy’s front teeth. Lucky for Buffy that she has that Slayer strength, too.

“What the hell?” Buffy hisses, bringing a hand up to cup at her smarting chin. “What is your _damage_?”

Faith glowers at her. “You are _such_ an asshole; do you know that?” She takes another swing, but this one Buffy ducks. Faith growls and kicks up and out, catching Buffy on the chest and sending her stumbling backwards.

She stares at Faith with wide eyes, blinking rapidly, but she doesn’t look surprised by the outburst. She just sets her shoulders and raises her own arms in a defensive position. “So it’s gonna be like that, then?”

“You started it,” Faith growls. She strikes out with her hands. Buffy manages to block the first blow but not the second, and she catches the full force of the hit on her cheek. It snaps her neck off to the side, but she barely seems to notice, because she comes back just as hard, catching Faith first in the stomach and then, when she’s doubled over, sends a knee up towards her face that Faith only just barely manages to dodge.

“You threw the first punch!” Buffy yells, throwing a one-two combo that Faith sees coming from a mile away. She blocks both hits and sends back a few of her own.

They dance back and forth, exchanging hits as they move across what Faith now recognizes as Buffy’s front yard. Faith’s shoulder is smarting and Buffy’s lip is starting to swell, but they don’t let up. They just keep coming at each other.

“You just couldn’t leave shit well enough alone! I was trying to _help you_ , Buffy! I’m trying to _help_!” She ducks one of Buffy’s kicks and uses the opportunity to swipe at her legs. She catches her ‘round the ankle and Buffy stumbles, tripping. Faith leaps forward, catching Buffy around the waist and sending them both toppling to the ground. “And you just _attacked_ me!” she finishes with a snarl.

Buffy twists underneath her, trying to buck her off, and Faith repositions herself so that she’s straddling her, pinning Buffy’s hips to the ground. Buffy hits her right in the kisser and Faith growls, throwing her body forward and locking Buffy’s arms down with one of her own. She presses her forearm into Buffy’s neck, applying just enough pressure to let Buffy know that she could strangle her easily, if she wanted to. Buffy’s back bucks off the cool grass, her breath coming out in hot puffs of air as she struggles to free herself.

They stay like that for a few seconds as Buffy writhes and Faith catches her breath. Faith smirks even as she holds Buffy steady. “You always did have a slow left cross, B.”

Buffy sneers at her, but she stops wriggling quite so violently. “And you always relied too much on fighting dirty,” she shoots back.

Faith moves her left arm from Buffy’s sternum, but she keeps her knees squeezed tight and she doesn’t release Buffy’s hands from her hold. “No such thing when you’re fighting things that are tryna kill ya.”

“I wasn’t trying to _kill_ you.”

“Well, that would be a first.”

Buffy shoots her a significant look. “You’re one to talk.”

“Y’know, the way I remember it, last time we _really_ fought I was the one who ended up with a knife in my gut. Not you.”

“Remember when you screwed my boyfriend?”

“Remember when you almost killed me?”

Buffy shrugs, using the movement to hide how she wrenches her hands against Faith’s hold. It’s a half-baked escape attempt at best. She isn’t even _trying_. “Doesn’t seem to want to stick,” Buffy says, her face impassive.

Faith grins, and it’s almost predatory. “You never _could_ manage to kill me.”

“Yeah, well, you never could stay dead.”

“ _You’re_ one to talk,” Faith shoots back.

They’re _smiling_ at each other. It was always so _weird_ , how they only really seemed to get along when they were fighting, when they were trading banter while they exchanged punches, or when they were too wrapped up in being Slayers to really consider what they were talking about.

It’s weird that they’re talking about the times they both tried to kill each other, and yet here they are, smiling politely like they’re gabbing about the weather.

Here she is, hunched over Buffy’s prone body, an arm across her throat like at any moment she could press down and end it all, and they’re _smiling_ at each other.

It’s weird how quickly they can go from being at each other’s throats to trading inside jokes like they’re bosom buddies. They both explode so violently, so without warning; they’re tumultuous even when they’re by themselves. But throw them in the ring together and you’re really playing with fire. When they’re getting along they’re thick as thieves, but when they aren’t…

Faith sighs, leans back, and clambers off of Buffy. She reaches down, holding out a hand for Buffy to take. When she does, Faith hoists her off the ground like she weighs practically nothing.

Once they’re both standing, Buffy brushes at the fabric of her jeans, wiping away imaginary dirt, before she starts combing her fingers through her hair — presumably to make herself more presentable so just in case Dawn _is_ awake it doesn’t look like they were fist fighting on the front lawn.

“Can you even remember what we were fighting about, Dear?” Faith asks with a faux-1950s air that has Buffy rolling her eyes in spite of herself.

“Don’t start, Faith.”

Faith shrugs. “What can I say? All I’m really good for is one liners and punching baddies in the face.”

“Your words, not mine.” Buffy turns to leave. Faith slinks after her.

“Y’know,” Faith says as they’re climbing the stairs to Buffy’s porch, “did it never occur to you that you might be one of those people who matters to me?”

“What?” Buffy asks, distracted as she slips her key into the lock.

“I said,” Faith repeats as they make their way into the foyer. Buffy closes the door softly behind them, glancing up the stairs, mindful of the sleeping college student tucked away into one of the bedrooms up there. “Did you ever think that maybe _you_ might matter to me?” Faith says, her own voice barely above a whisper, conscious, too, of the fact that Dawn must surely be sleeping. Faith is staring off into the dark and empty dining room, because it’s easier to do that than to look at Buffy. She keeps talking, though, finding courage somewhere in the stillness of the house. “Did you ever think that maybe the reason I’m here in this parallel world with you is because… is because I don’t got a lotta people left in my life that really mean anything, but… but _you_ mean something. You _matter_. I know it don’t go both ways, or anything, but I give a shit if you’re dead, B. You know that, right?”

The house is still and silent. So silent. It’s like no one is even breathing (Faith certainly isn’t).

She turns to Buffy slowly, half expecting her to not be there anymore. There’s no way she could be there and be this quiet. Could she?

But sure enough, Buffy _is_ still there by the time Faith turns to face her. She’s standing in the dark hallway, her face half covered in shadow so Faith can’t read her expression. Faith swallows thickly as Buffy just looks at her, in that still, calculating way she sometimes gets when she’s on a hunt; when she’s trying to make some sort of impossible decision.

Faith’s legs tense as the urge to _run_ hits her full force, and she’s just about to bolt up the stairs (or maybe out the door, never to be seen again), when Buffy takes a step towards her and—

Buffy kisses her. Just walks right up and plants one on her, all soft and serious and meaningful and shit. And Faith, well… she doesn’t really know what to do. She’s never been kissed like _this_ , before. Like… like she means something. Like it matters. Like Buffy actually wants to take her time. Like Buffy’s trying to _give_ her something, not like she’s trying to _take_. And that’s a pretty foreign feeling, for her, so… she’s not sure what she’s supposed to do.

It takes her a few seconds for her body to catch up with her mind, but Buffy never pulls away. Even though Faith stands there, frozen and stiff and unmoving, Buffy doesn’t back off. She stays right up in Faith’s personal space, her body pressed flush against her, eyes closed and lips soft and hands gentle where they cradle Faith’s hips.

When Faith finally does respond to the kiss, she does so slowly, barely moving her mouth; like she’s afraid if she does anything too fast, this’ll all end, and she’ll never get another chance.

They pull apart after what feels like an eternity (but it can’t have been longer than a couple minutes). Faith’s heart is racing in her chest and her palms feel sweaty and she doesn’t know what to do, now. She doesn’t know where they go from here. It feels like they’ve crossed a line they can’t go back from, like they’ve crossed over some border that they’ve never crossed over before, and she doesn’t know—

“Faith?” Buffy whispers quietly, her voice barely a ghosting breath against Faith’s lips.

“What?” Faith asks back, just as quietly.

“Will you stop thinking so loudly?”

Faith swallows. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to.”

“I’m sorry I baited you.”

“I’m sorry I hit ya.”

Buffy shakes her head. “I deserved it. I was lashing out, and it wasn’t fair.”

Faith shrugs. “I was lashing out, too. You were just always better with words than I was. I’m more of an ‘action-first-ask-questions-later’ type of gal.”

Buffy looks at her again, in that unnerving way she has where Faith feels like she’s looking right through her. Faith swallows again, her throat completely dry.

Something inside Faith tugs — their Slayer connection pulling taut, it feels like — before Buffy says, without preamble, “Do you want to come to bed with me?”

Faith blinks. “D’you mean…”

Buffy slips her hand into Faith’s, their fingers intertwining, and she slowly leads them up the stairs. Faith follows behind, half in a daze, as Buffy coaxes her into her bedroom (into their shared bedroom).

The door closes behind them with a soft sort of finality, and then Faith forgets to think.

____________________

Later, much later — maybe forty minutes, maybe an hour and a half, Faith can’t be quite sure — they’re laying side-by-side in bed. Buffy’s on her side, her body facing towards the center of the bed. Faith is on her stomach; the way she likes to sleep. Her eyes are closed and she has a happy little smile on her face that she can’t quite seem to get rid of.

Buffy’s fingers trace long, languid circles on the bare skin of Faith’s back. They’ve been like this for a few minutes now, laying in companionable silence in this dark room. Naked, save for the sheets pulled over their bodies.

It’s comfortable. More comfortable than Faith expected. She’s not usually the kind to stick around after she’s gotten hers, but she thinks… well, if it’s _always_ like this, maybe she should make more of an effort to see things through until the next morning. If all post-coital sessions feel as nice as this one, maybe she should start making it a regular thing.

Buffy’s hand stills suddenly, her palm falling flat somewhere in the middle of Faith’s spine. Faith mumbles her discontent. “Why’d you stop?” she asks, her voice muffled by her pillow, and Buffy chuckles but restarts the motion. Her nails ghost over Faith’s smooth skin, somewhere between tickling and scratching, and Faith arcs slightly to get closer to the feeling. God, but this is nice.

They don’t talk for a few more quiet minutes, and Faith is almost asleep when Buffy finally speaks. “Why did you come back, Faith?” Buffy whispers into the dark room.

Faith hums, still mostly on her way to being asleep. “Never was good at following directions,” she mumbles, shifting a little so that her head is turned towards where Buffy lays. She smiles slightly in the dark, and wonders if Buffy can see the expression. “You order me away, I come back just to annoy you.”

Buffy laughs quietly and finally withdraws her hand. She shifts a little, tucking her arms under her head as she scoots forward in the bed so her knees brush against Faith’s hip. “No, I mean… why did you come back to Sunnydale? Why did you break out of prison?”

Faith shrugs. She turns a little so that she rolls onto her side, her pillow clutched to her chest and tucked tightly under her chin. “Willow said you needed me. Didn’t give it a lot of thought. Do you—” She pauses. “I know you didn’t want me to come back.” Buffy shifts next to her but doesn’t deny it outright. The obvious confirmation doesn’t even really sting like Faith thinks it might once have. “When we get all this squared away,” Faith says, a little resigned, “when we get back to our own time… soon as the First is dead, I’ll be outta your hair. Y’don’t have to worry.”

“No, that’s not…” Buffy’s hand twitches, like she wants to reach out again but stops herself. “I’m glad you came back. It’s… good. Thank you.”

Faith can’t help but quirk an eyebrow. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard you thank me, before.”

“Shut up. Yes I have. You’ve saved my life before.”

“Right. Still, it’s nice for a girl to feel appreciated every once in a while.”

Buffy’s voice is as quiet as her smile when she says, “I appreciate you.” Faith makes a noise in the back of her throat like she disagrees. “No,” Buffy continues, “I mean it. I may not like you very much most of the time, but I appreciate you.”

“I appreciate you too, B.”

Buffy scoots forward on the bed, just enough so she can brush her lips against Faith’s with the briefest amount of contact. She’s gone before Faith even really has time to register the sensation, but she knows it happened. “We should go to sleep,” Buffy whispers. “It’s late, and we have work to do tomorrow.”

“Right,” Faith nods as Buffy rolls back over and onto her other side, her back to Faith’s front. They’re laying too far apart to touch now, but Buffy’s within arms-reach of her. If Faith wanted to, she could reach out and hold her.

She doesn’t. Obviously.

But she _could_.

____________________

They stay like that for a very long time, but Faith does not fall asleep. She watches the way Buffy’s body seems to rise and fall a little bit with every one of her breaths, and though they come evenly, with a distinct pattern, Faith can tell that she’s not asleep, either.

She has no idea what could possibly be keeping Buffy awake. Not like _she’s_ in the midst of a romantic existential crisis right now. She’s not dealing with all the rising emotional panic Faith is currently dealing with.

There’s a question, digging at the back of Faith’s mind. She can’t get rid of it; can’t figure out a way to stop thinking about it. It’s the only thing she’s been able to think about for thirty minutes, and it’s keeping her tense enough that she can’t relax into sleep. Not until she asks Buffy; not until she knows…

“What’s going to happen tomorrow?” she whispers towards Buffy’s back. Buffy doesn’t make any move to show that she’s heard, to show that she’s still awake, but she _is_. Faith knows she is. She can _feel_ it. So she tries again. “When we wake up tomorrow, do we just… go back to normal?”

Again, Buffy doesn’t respond.

Faith sighs, and decides that she can take a hint. She’ll drop it. Buffy clearly doesn’t want to talk about this kind of thing; not right now; not with her. Faith can take a hint.

The spell that had fallen between them earlier has already broken, at this point. The comfortable silence they’re currently sitting in is built on a companionable truce, and nothing more. Faith knows that. She can feel the way Buffy is slipping away from her, can feel the way the energy between them is shifting, with every passing breath. She can feel it happening around her, and she doesn’t know how to stop it.

She feels like she wants to reach out and grab onto it, like she wants to thread her fingers through the feeling of _Before_ and hold on tight and never let go. She wants to sit in the feeling of Buffy’s lips on hers, of Buffy’s bare skin against her own, of Buffy’s arousal hot and wet against her mouth, of the hot flash that sparked through her every time one of their heart rates spiked. She wants to bask in the warmth of after-glow, of the security of Buffy’s fingers dancing across her back, of how _easy_ it all felt.

But that’s not what this is. That’s not what this _was_. Buffy’s closing herself off right in front of her, and she can see it happening, but she doesn’t know how to stop it.

So she lets it go.

But she doesn’t let _all_ conversation go. She speaks again, a little louder so that Buffy will have a reason to answer her (so she can’t pretend like she doesn’t hear). “You and I can never really get along, you know.” Buffy doesn’t say anything back to her, but she shifts a little against her pillow, so Faith knows she’s listening. “We were never supposed to exist at the same time.”

“I feel like I’ve heard this before,” Buffy mumbles over her shoulder, and Faith immediately breathes a sigh of relief that at least she’s decided to _talk_ to her.

“Yeah, well,” she says with a wry grin Buffy has no hope of seeing, “you say something poetic once and it kinda sticks with you. I don’t got much in the way of literary whats-it-called, B. Humor me.”

Buffy flips back over so that now she’s face-to-face with Faith again. Faith resists the urge to reach out and brush the hair out of her eyes, the urge to tuck the loose bits behind Buffy’s ears. She doesn’t think she should try and touch Buffy. Not like that, at least. Not now. Not now that things feel so _different_. “Neither one of us was ever meant to exist, Faith,” Buffy says softly, but with no small amount of severity. “And, while we’re at it, I really don’t think the world was supposed to have _demons_ and _vampires,_ either.”

“If the world didn’t have demons of the Hell-dimension variety it would still have demons of the human variety. You and I both know that. We’ve been around the block a few times. Don’t have to be a Slayer to know that the world can be a pretty fucked up place.”

“So, what? Having us is like…” she shifts just a hair closer, close enough that her bare knees touch Faith’s underneath the covers, “the world trying to fix itself?”

“World ain’t never gonna fix itself, B. You’re right, we were never meant to exist. Neither were demons, or vamps, or the things that go bump in the night. But they do. And so do we. So best we can hope is that we kick some major ass while we’re still around to get it done, y’know?”

“You’re right,” Buffy says, shaking her head, “your poetry _is_ shit.”

“Well I’m no ‘William the Bloody’, but…”

Buffy laughs. Honest to God _laughs_. The sound is loud in the otherwise quiet house, so loud that Buffy has to clamp a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. Dawn only sleeps just down the hall. They had been so careful while having sex, so quiet and slow, barely making a sound lest it accidently wake up the brat. (It had made the whole thing feel a little surreal, like they were living in a delicate glass world that could shatter at any moment if they weren’t too careful. Exchanging soft breaths and swallowing up moans with mouths, with lips and tongues.)

(No one had ever touched Faith like she was _breakable_ , before.)

“He told you about that?” Buffy asks once she’s gotten herself a little more under control.

Faith smirks. “Nah, Angel and I got talking when we were holed up in LA. He’s got some _wild_ stories from back in the day. You ever get the chance you should pick his brain for— what is it, B?” Buffy’s looking at her like she just grew a second head. Faith frowns, suddenly worried, and moves a little closer to her under the cover of night. She reaches out a hand and brushes the pads of her fingers over Buffy’s knuckles, just barely. “Buffy?” she asks, hesitantly.

“Angel.”

Faith tilts her head. “What about him?”

“We never called Angel. We didn’t even think about it.”

“Well, he’s in LA, what’s he gonna be able to do? We’re just supposed to dial-a-vamp and see what—”

“He must know _something_ , Faith. Giles is all out of information, Willow can’t help us, Riley doesn’t know anything… Angel’s our next best bet.”

Faith frowns, more than a little skeptical. “I don’t know, B… You think this version of Angel’s still, you know… _Angel_? I had a pretty nasty run-in with Angelus only a couple months ago. Not really lookin’ to revisit that.”

“It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?”

Faith doesn’t _really_ think so, but she supposes that they’re pretty much out of other viable options, at this point. Besides, she doubts she could say anything to make Buffy change her mind, anyway. When she gets an idea in her head, she’s sort of all… _get-it-done-or-die-trying_ about it.

Either way, all this talking has definitely shifted the mood between them. And it’s not like Faith was really _expecting_ or _wanting_ any more pillow talk — and she _definitely_ wasn’t looking to _cuddle_ , Jesus — but Buffy’s abrupt change in tone still leaves her feeling a little bit sour. She can’t explain it (refuses to try), but something about the way Buffy’s already pulling on clothes, already zipping around the room even though it’s goddamn _five in the morning_ and Faith’s fucking _exhausted_ and she needs to _sleep_ , already… Something about it makes her stomach turn, and not in the pleasant, swooping, getting-kissed-by-a-pretty-girl kinda way. It’s in that weird, nauseous, I-just-opened-myself-up-to-someone-and-now-they’re-blowing-me-off-and-this-is-why-I-don’t-do-this-kind-of-thing kinda way.

Buffy disappears from the room without even a glance behind her, without even looking back towards the bed, already mumbling about phone calls and how long the drive is from LA to Sunnydale and Faith knows, somehow, that any hope she ever had of talking about this, of… of turning this into a potentially-more-than-once type deal disappears from the room with Buffy. Hell, as soon as Buffy turned away from her in the dark, soon as she ignored her questions, Faith knew she’d lost her chance.

She and Buffy don’t _talk_ about things. They never _really_ have. These past two days of tentative bonding and opening up to each other have been a fluke, and nothing else; a random glitch in the regularity of their day-to-day. And sleeping together… well. That was just a you-happened-to-be-there-and-vulnerable(-and-maybe-in-love-with-me) type deal. Faith knows Buffy doesn’t… she doesn’t feel the same way. This was never gonna mean to her what it meant to Faith. She knew that going into this.

They’re never gonna talk about this again. Buffy’s gonna go back to being mildly-hostile towards her and Faith’s gonna go back to pretending like it doesn’t feel like someone’s twisting a rusty knife right into her gut every time she does and everything’s gonna return to normal. Well… as normal as can be, she supposes.

(She _finally_ gets the chance it feels like she’s been waiting _years_ for, and she’s somehow managed to blow it all in the span of a half hour.)

(Figures.)

Faith sinks back into her pillows and draws the covers up to her chin. She doesn’t bother getting dressed — not like Buffy can pretend to be flustered if she sees her naked; _she’s_ the one who left her like this.

Faith draws the covers up to her chin and closes her eyes and tries very hard to will herself to fall asleep.

When Buffy finally slinks back into the room nearly twenty minutes later, she can almost pretend like she’s already unconscious.

She thinks Buffy doesn’t notice the slight wetness at the corners of her eyes — the only indication she’d been anywhere close to having an emotional reaction to this situation. (She didn’t _cry_. Not really. Going all teary-eyed doesn’t count as actual crying, not if there are no sobs and no tears actually _fall_. So.)

She doesn’t think Buffy notices.

And when Buffy slips back into bed next to her, her body thrumming with anxious and excited energy, Faith can almost pretend that it doesn’t bother her.

____________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to come talk to me on [ tumblr. ](https://morningsound15.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So… in your universe, the two of you are—”
> 
> Buffy says: “Friends” at the same time Faith says: “Nothing.” They shoot each other a significant look.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. Real life got in the way.

____________________

For the second day in a row, Faith wakes up alone.

In the morning, when she opens her eyes, she’s on her side, curled in on herself. In the soft expanse of white comforters and plush pillows that surround her, she feels a lot like virgin-wrapped-in-a-purity-metaphor. (But hey, at least it’s a _comfortable_ purity metaphor.)

She’s not sure what time it is. Early, if the light shining through the window is any indication.

Then again, it might just be cloudy.

She stands with a groan, stretching out her tight muscles and cracking her neck with one quick movement. Maybe it’s her five-years-older age catching up with her, or maybe it’s because she barely slept the night before, but she _really_ feels like some actual human garbage, this morning.

She showers, brushes her teeth, and gets dressed with a kind of bleary-eyed mechanism. She moves through the motions with practiced ease, fighting off a hefty yawn at every other turn, not really thinking just… doing.

When she’s done getting dressed she spends a few moments looking in the mirror, regarding herself. She feels… well, she’s not really sure _what_ she feels. She’s not sure what this whole situation _should_ be making her feel.

She looks at her reflection, tracking over the lines in her face, over the skin of her neck. She looks into her own eyes and tries to see if there’s anything different about them, today. If there’s some part of her… some part of her that’s been visibly _changed_ , by last night. She pulls a few faces, just to see if she still recognizes herself.

She doesn’t _look_ any different. But she thinks maybe she _should_ look different, considering… well, considering she slept with Buffy last night.

They slept together. She had _sex_ with Buffy. Buffy had sex with _her_.

Jesus Christ.

She doesn’t _look_ any different, but she _feels_ different. She feels like _everything_ is different. And Faith’s not usually one for _emotions_ or feelings of _we should do this again sometime,_ but…

Well.

She’s not surprised she wakes up alone. She never really took B for a _hang around and cuddle after_ kinda gal. (At least, not with _her_. Maybe with her boyfriends. But Faith _isn’t_ her boyfriend, and there’s no _way_ she wants to be, either. So.)

She’s not surprised she wakes up alone. But, well… she maybe had sorta _hoped_ …

But there’s no use thinking about that. This whole business between them — as fun as it was, for the one night it existed — has just been a fluke. Just one more bit of weird history between them that Faith won’t ever really be able to shake. Just one more thing to make things awkward, just one more thing for them to fight about.

Faith looks at herself in the mirror and sighs. She _really_ hopes they don’t fight about this, too. She’s not sure she could stomach that, could stomach Buffy throwing this in her face, using it as another knife with which to cut and slice at the rest of Faith’s tenuous resolve.

She glances at one of the framed photos hanging on the wall just next to the mirror. It’s one of her and B and Dawn. It must be from years ago, because Dawn still looks pretty young. Still in high school, probably. In the picture they’re standing outside in Buffy’s backyard; the light is bright and the trees are extraordinarily green, so it’s probably early summer. Faith is grinning straight-on to the camera, and she has Dawn hoisted onto her back. Dawn is laughing, her head ducked down to the side and her arms wrapped loosely around Faith’s neck for stabilization. And Buffy… Buffy’s looking up at Faith with this expression on her face, this sort of unencumbered _joy_ … Faith’s never seen her look like that. She’s never seen her look that _happy_ , that _unburdened_ , that _at ease_. Not ever. And _definitely_ not directed _at_ her.

She stares at the picture for a very long time, trying to memorize every detail. She doesn’t know if she’ll ever be a part of a moment like this. Not for real, not as anything more than a strange outside spectator, a woman looking in on a life that isn’t hers. So she’s got to try to remember as much of it as she can. Memorize the details, the expressions, the positioning of the bodies. Like if she looks hard enough she can steal it for herself. (Maybe if she tries hard enough, she’ll be able to pretend that she knows what it feels like to be surrounded by so much happiness and so much love and so much obvious caring. Maybe if she tries hard enough, the images that are-hers-but-also-aren’t will trickle back into her mind like water through a sieve, and she’ll finally have the feeling and the memory for herself; and then she can lock it up tight, squeeze it into her heart and shutter it away so no one can ever take it from her.)

Faith wonders, sometimes, what it must be like for the Other Her. The Her that lives Here. What it must be like to walk around and have people smile when they look at Her. What it must be like to have Buffy look at Her like she’s a _woman_ , an _equal_ , and not a bomb that’s about to go off. It must be nice being treated like a person and not like a murderer.

She wonders if she’ll ever get to experience it for real. If there’ll ever be a point in her life when the people she knows — the people she _actually_ knows, not these people Here who think she’s someone else — will look at her and smile and be happy when she walks in a room. She wonders if she’ll ever carry Dawn on her back, if Buffy will ever laugh at one of her jokes without immediately getting self-conscious about the fact that Faith made her feel anything except boiling rage. She wonders if Giles will ever talk to her softly, like the Giles Here did; if he’ll ever respect her opinions; if he’ll ever see her as anything but the girl who tried to kill his pseudo-daughter.

She wonders.

 

 

When she walks into the kitchen, Buffy turns around from her place by the stove and shoots her a tentative smile. There’s something behind her eyes that seems wary, like she’s not sure what Faith is about to do. Like she’s not sure if she should be braced for a fight or an argument or something worse.

But Faith just smiles back at her and moves to the refrigerator without saying anything.

“Sleep well?” Buffy asks, her voice carefully neutral.

Faith, carton of orange juice in her hand, moves toward the cabinets. Somehow, standing still feels like an impossible task. So she keeps her hands busy. “I’ve had worse,” she says as she pulls a glass from Buffy’s shelves. It isn’t exactly a _yes_ but it isn’t exactly a _no,_ and it’s sort of the best she can offer, right about now.

Buffy nods like she understands. Maybe she does. “Good,” she says. “I’m glad.”

Silence descends upon them. It’s not necessarily _uncomfortable_ , but it _is_ strained. Whatever Buffy’s cooking on the stove starts to sizzle. Whatever it is, it smells amazing, and Faith thinks that if she weren’t feeling so unbalanced and nauseous and unwilling to sit still, she would probably be starving.

Buffy keeps her back to Faith. There’s a tension to her shoulders, something tight that pulls them up to her ears. Faith watches her closely for a few seconds before she sighs and puts down her glass of juice. “Listen, B…” she starts, carefully, “about last night…”

“It’s alright,” Buffy says without turning around. “I get it. Things were tense, emotions were high…” She clears her throat and shakes her head. She turns off the stove and turns around. Her face is set, her eyes determined. “It was a one-time thing, alright?” she says seriously. “Won’t happen again.”

“But that’s not—”

“Faith,” Buffy says softly, her voice just above a whisper. She looks determined, but something in her eyes is also pleading. “We don’t have time for this right now,” she says, shaking her head. “Angel’s coming tonight and… look, can we just drop it? Pretend it never happened and just—”

“Go back to normal?” Faith asks, the words tasting bitter on her tongue.

Buffy looks at her with an expression Faith can’t quite decipher and swallows. “Yeah,” she says, her voice croaking. “Normal.”

“Sure, B. Whatever you want.” She turns to walk away, but Buffy stops her with a hand on her elbow.

“It’s not what… we need to focus on getting home. That’s the priority, right now. Anything else is… is a distraction we can’t afford. Not right now.”

Faith thinks that this must be Buffy’s way of trying to placate her — saying ‘not right now, but soon’ rather than an outright ‘never’ — but the words feel all the crueler for that. It would be kinder of Buffy to just tell her that she has no shot, rather than dragging it out like she is. Rip off the Band-Aid all at once.

Giving her false hope will only make it hurt worse in the future.

But Faith’s always been a little bit of a masochist; always been a little bit of a sucker. So she just nods her head in agreement. “Not right now,” she says, and it cuts deep, but… well.

She’s always been a little bit of a sucker.

____________________

Faith’s not sure calling Angel was a good idea. Realistically, she understands why Buffy felt that she had to (and some small part of her may even _agree_ with that decision), but…

Well. At the very least, he’s super informative.

She’s not sure why Buffy insists on asking him all these questions about their lives Here that have nothing to do with helping them get home. Maybe Buffy knows something more than she does; maybe Buffy thinks there’s something to _understanding_ and _knowing_ this world before they can leave it.

Or maybe she, like Faith, simply has this pressing and boiling _desire_ and _hunger_ for answers, some sort of _incredulity_ around the reality they’ve been shoved into. Maybe she, like Faith, simply has this insatiable curiosity for knowing _what happened what could have been what might have been what went wrong._

So. Angel helps with all of that.

Faith won’t bother going into specifics — the barebones account is awkward enough as is — but apparently, from what she can piece together of the history he shares with them, it all goes down pretty much like this:

Buffy and Angel get together while Buffy’s in high school. Buffy gets tangled up in Angel’s web of romance and man-of-the-night bullshit (as if anyone expected anything different?). Angel loses his soul. Kendra. Angel kills Kendra. Angel gets his soul back. Buffy kills him. Buffy brings him back. Faith.

All that’s pretty familiar to them. Nothing really out of the ordinary, as far as Faith can tell. From what she’s been able to piece together over the past few years, that’s basically how everything went down in their universe, too. Except with a few more witty remarks and _monster-of-the-week_ types that they mostly choose to gloss over in the retelling of things.

But then he starts in on the part of the story they _aren’t_ familiar with.

Buffy being with Angel, but Faith living with Buffy. The two of them growing close as the lonely Chosen Two. And then them growing closer. And then closer still.

And then… something like an affair. A lot of late-night meetings in Buffy’s room, in graveyards, in bathrooms at the Bronze. Clandestine meetings and teenage fumblings and all that business you might find in some sorta cheesy romance novel. (Hearing about it all makes Faith’s ears burn a bright red.)

And if you think it’s awkward breaking up with your boyfriend _once_ because he finds out you’ve been sleeping with your sort-of-maybe-evil-second-half behind his back? Now imagine having to get him to explain all of that to you years later, when you call and ask him to drive all the way down to his old haunts because you’ve woken up in an alternate universe and you and the aforementioned second-half both have amnesia and can’t remember anything about the lives you’re supposed to be leading.

Faith wonders if Angel would be blushing right now, if his body was alive and he actually had the ability to do it.

She and Buffy are blushing enough for all three of them, so she’s kinda glad he can’t.

But still. There are still a lot of awkward pauses and a striking inability to make eye contact (that Faith is actually pretty secretly grateful for).

She’s also grateful for the Summers’ crazy big couch that lets her and Buffy sit as far away from each other as humanly possible while still listening to what Angel is telling them. (If she had to sit next to Buffy through all of this, thigh pressed to thigh and shoulders brushing? She’d probably lose her damn mind.)

He can’t stop staring at them, his eyes boring into their faces like he’s trying to discern something invisible. It’s making Faith _distinctly_ uncomfortable, so she glares back as often as she can. “You guys really don’t…” he says at one point, looking more than a little lost. They’ve had to explain their situation to him a few times, at this point, because there’s just something about it that he can’t quite seem to understand. “You _really_ have no memory of this?”

Buffy shakes her head. Faith stares at her hands, at the ring shining on her finger (that she still, for some reason, can’t force herself to take off). “We aren’t from this world. I don’t know how we got here but we woke up and everything was… everything was _wrong_. Things were weird and different and we—” She glances at Faith— “we’re just pretty confused.”

Angel’s brow has been furrowed for the last twenty-five minutes. Faith wants to tell him that his face’ll stick like that, if he keeps it up, but she keeps her quip to herself. (He _did_ drive all the way from LA as soon as the sun set just to help them, after all. Least she can do is be courteous to him.)

“I don’t get it. I mean… I _do_ get it. In theory. Demons and magic and curses. But you…” He sighs. “I sent you a toaster for your wedding.”

“I’m sure it was a very nice toaster,” Buffy says, attempting to placate. Faith struggles against the urge to roll her eyes.

“So… in your universe, the two of you are…?” He trails off, his sentence ticking up at the end to indicate that he’s leaving space for them to respond.

Buffy says: “Friends” at the same time Faith says: “Nothing.” They shoot each other a significant look.

Faith quirks an eyebrow. “Friends? Is that what we are? I thought I was the bitch who lived in your basement and ate your food until you and your buds could figure out a way to ship me off to some other part of the country — preferably in some sort of locked metal box that you could then throw away the key to.” That might be a little harsh. Can you blame her, though? She’s been stuck in the  most awkward conversation of her life for the past thirty-five minutes; it’s bound to make her a _little_ cranky.

Buffy huffs and folds her arms over her chest. “You’re being dramatic. You know that isn’t true.”

“Oh really? So we’re _friends_ , now?” _Why is she doing this? Why can’t she just let it rest? Why does she always have to go around picking fights? Why can’t she just **let it go?**_ “Does that mean I get to join in on the family dinners and the secret meetings at Giles’ house that you all pretend I don’t know about?” Buffy swallows and shifts in her seat, looking away and toward the floor. “Yeah,” Faith says quietly, somehow resigned when she really just wants to be righteously indignant. “That’s what I thought.”

There’s a reason they’re fighting. There’s a reason they’ve shot straight back into their old habits, into their old ways. There’s a reason their sexual détente couldn’t last longer than a few hours.

Things have been weird all day. And they’d had absolutely _nothing_ to do for hours except sit around in Buffy’s house and pointedly _not_ talk to each other, while they waited for sundown; while they waited for _Angel_. They had nothing to do except sit around and stare at each other and pointedly _not_ talk about the fact that they definitely for sure slept together last night and neither one of them knows what to do about it.

Faith _definitely_ doesn’t know what to do about. She had thought, at first, that maybe they would… talk? But what would they even talk _about_? They barely have anything to say to each other on a _good_ day. And Buffy’s already made it _pretty_ clear that she doesn’t want to do a deep-dive into this particular topic. She doesn’t want to talk about it. Thinks it’ll be a ‘ _distraction’_ if they do. And, look, she may be _right_ about that, but honestly Faith could do with a good distraction, right about now. It beats whatever the fuck this thing is, between them; this weird silence; this inability to sit in the same room together; this strange desire to avoid each other’s eyes. Like it’s dangerous to look at each other. Like if their gazes ever _did_ meet, they’d be inclined to leap across the room and… and what? Kiss? Fuck? Try to kill each other?

It’s fucking _weird_ , is the point. And it’s put them both on-edge; it’s made them both annoyed and fussy and irritable.

Faith blames Buffy completely.

It’s only then, a decent length of time into her brooding, that she notices that Angel has been watching them closely, eyes wide and unblinking, for the entirety of their exchange.

“ _What_?” she practically growls at him. (He _would_ have some sort of fucking opinion on this. Can’t keep his nose out of their goddamn—)

“I’ve just… never seen you _fight_ , before,” he says softly, expression still unreadable. “You really aren’t from here, are you?”

“I need a coffee,” Buffy says suddenly, standing from her spot and stalking out of the room without another word.

Faith growls low in her throat and stands, too. She moves in the direction of the basement, hoping that Buffy still keeps some errant workout equipment down there so she can pummel a punching bag or two rather than some poor sap’s face. But a hand rests on her elbow, and she’s pulled to a stop.

“Faith,” Angel says to her quietly, his eyes dark and intense in a way that really only his eyes can get. “What’s going on with you two? For real.”

“We told you. Alternate dimensions, time travel, body swaps… whole nine yards.”

“No,” he shakes his head, “no, I know that. But… look, is there something you’re not telling me? I need to know everything I can if you want me to help you.”

Faith clenches her jaw. “There’s nothing to tell,” she denies.

Angel frowns. “There’s… I can _smell her_ on you, Faith. She’s all over you.”

“It’s _nothing_ , Angel.”

“Look, I believe that you aren’t… I believe that this isn’t your world. But, it… there’s _something_ you’re not telling me.”

“I _said_ it’s nothing.”

“You’re sleeping together, right?”

Faith’s blood runs cold. “Is that _any_ of your business?”

“It might be.”

“It _definitely_ isn’t.”

“There are forces at work here more powerful than either of you can understand,” he says lowly, his voice thick with warning. “You need to be _careful_. Any little thing that you change here could—”

“I said it’s _none of your business_ , Angel.”

“Hey!” Buffy calls from somewhere behind them. Angel immediately takes a few steps away from her as Buffy approaches, looking between the two of them with no small amount of suspicion. “Everything okay, here?” she asks carefully, her eyes flitting uneasily between the two people engaged in a stand-off in front of her.

“Peachy,” Faith says, managing to glower for just a few moments longer at Angel before she turns on her heel and stalks downstairs.

Neither of them move to follow her.

 

 

Buffy doesn’t come downstairs for another forty-five minutes. In that time, Faith has managed to break not just one but _both_ of Buffy’s remaining punching bags, has done more pushups than she ever thought possible, and has otherwise completely exhausted herself.

She sits now, on the cold stone ground, her back to the wall farthest from the stairs, the wall against which, in another universe, her own bed rests — the spare cot Buffy had managed to dig out of storage for her to crash on while they try to avert the end of the world. She has a tennis ball in her hands. She’s not sure where she found it, exactly, or what the hell it’s doing down here (Buffy ain’t exactly the kinda gal who owns her own racket and frequents a country club), but she’s glad she has it, because it at least gives her something to do.

She’s exhausted. Bone-weary in a kind of deep, agonizing way, a kind of way that extends beyond the punishing workout she just put herself through. She feels a sheen of sweat on her skin that’s rapidly cooling, making her shiver every so often. Her hair is damp and it falls a little into her eyes, but she doesn’t bother pushing it away. She holds the tennis ball in her hands and every once in a while she throws it against the opposite wall, before letting it bounce back to her.

That’s how Buffy finds her, forty-five minutes after her confrontation with Angel.

She makes her way carefully down the stairs until she finally stops, lingering on the bottom step, hip resting against the railing and arms crossed over her chest. “Angel’s gone,” she says. Faith doesn’t acknowledge that she’s heard her. “He said to tell you goodbye, and that he’s sorry.”

Faith hums as she continues to bounce the tennis ball against the floor and then off the wall, catching it at the peak of its arc and repeating the motion. It makes a repetitive _thump whack, thump whack, thump whack_ as it hits the floor and then the stone of Buffy’s basement walls. It’s almost comforting in its hypnotic rhythm. That’s probably why she keeps doing it. “Kind of a short trip, wasn’t it?” she asks without looking away from her task. When she next speaks, her voice is sarcastic. “He didn’t want to stick around for tea in the morning?”

Buffy rolls her eyes. “He felt weird about staying. Said something about a fight, and saying the wrong thing.” She continues to stare at Faith, who continues to ignore her. “So d’you want to tell me what you guys fought about?”

“Nothing.” Faith shrugs. She throws the ball again. _Thump whack._ “Just him not being able to keep his nose outta my business.”

Buffy sighs and finally steps onto the ground floor. She sticks to the side of the room, out of the way of Faith’s little game, and meanders her way across the basement. She sinks down onto the floor next to Faith, with just enough space left between them that their shoulders don’t touch. “You’re fighting with a lot of people, lately,” she says, and Faith is almost surprised by the lack of accusation in her words. It’s a statement, more than anything. For once Buffy doesn’t seem like she’s trying to pick a fight.

Faith throws the ball. _Thump whack._ “Sorry if that makes you feel like ya aren’t special or somethin’, Buffy, but in case you haven’t noticed—” _Thump whack_ — “I don’t really ‘ _get along_ ’ with people.”

“Oh no, I’ve noticed. I just feel like you’re working unusually hard to antagonize them, recently.”

Faith takes a breath as she weighs her words, wondering whether or not she should say what’s been on her mind. But she feels different, down here in Buffy’s basement. Safer, maybe. It’s familiar territory; it’s the place she knows; the one realm between the two worlds that seems the same, that seems unchanged. There are no photographs, down here. No new furniture. No reminders of the lives they’re pretending to live; no reminders of the strange and abnormal universe surrounding them.

Down here, things look the same. And if Faith closes her eyes, she can almost pretend that they are.

Faith catches the ball with an air of finality and pauses, her arm cocked like she’s about to make another throw. “Can I be honest with ya?” she asks, letting her arm fall uselessly to her side.

“Sure,” Buffy says, leaning her head back against the wall. “Why not.”

So Faith takes a breath and speaks honestly. “I don’t know how to handle all of this,” she says. “All of these people… they look at me and… I don’t know, B. I’ve never had people _look at me_ like that, before. Like… like I _matter_ to them. Like we’re friends. Like they care about me. I’m so used to Giles and Will lookin’ at me like they think I’m about to kill ya, and… I guess it’s just new, is all.”

There’s a quiet moment of contemplation before Buffy speaks. “So you’re antagonizing them because…?”

Faith shrugs. She turns the tennis ball over in her hands. “I don’t know. I guess because that’s what I’m used to. I don’t know how to act around a bunch of people who don’t hate my guts.”

“They _don’t_ hate your guts.”

Faith looks at her, visibly unimpressed. “Right,” she says sarcastically. “Sure.”

“Well, they don’t _all_ hate you. The Potentials like you a lot; practically worship you, even.”

Faith’s lip quirks up at the side in an almost-smirk. “Do I detect a hint of jealousy?”

“No,” Buffy denies, but Faith knows she’s lying. She shakes herself, like even she can feel the hollow ring to her own words, and tries again. “It’s good,” Buffy says, firmer this time. More confident. “They _should_ look up to you you. You’re a leader to them as much as I am.”

Faith snorts. “Well now we _both_ know that’s not true.”

“It could be,” Buffy says simply. “Why not? Don’t we make the rules about our own lives?”

“You’re tellin’ me you want me movin’ out of your basement and up into one of the big girl rooms? That you’ll let me just waltz on into your family dinners and your Scooby Gang meetings and no one’s gonna throw a fit about it?”

“They shouldn’t.” Faith shoots her a look that says she _distinctly_ doesn’t believe her. Buffy shakes her head. “No I-I know you don’t believe it, and… look, I don’t even _like_ you, most of the time—” it’s the second time she’s said those words, and Faith is starting to wonder whether Buffy’s repeating them because she’s trying to convince _Faith_ of their veracity, or _herself_ — “but… I know you’re trying. I know you want to do the right thing. I know you care about the girls. That… that you wouldn’t do anything to hurt them.” She takes a breath. “I believe you, Faith. That should be enough for them.”

“Yeah, well… what if it isn’t?”

Buffy doesn’t answer her. Faith doesn’t blame her. She doesn’t think she could have come up with a decent answer either, were their situations reversed.

____________________

If Faith had thought that their little talk in the basement would have any sort of impact on Buffy’s attitude towards their situation, she ends up being sorely mistaken.

The next day rolls around as inevitably as all the ones before it. They call in sick to work (again, because there’s no _way_ they’d be able to tackle the responsibilities of full on 9-to-5 jobs right now, in the middle of all of this, without drawing suspicion to themselves). Faith feels a little bad for Other Buffy and Other Faith, who are no doubt gonna be getting some _serious_ heat when they get back into their own bodies ( _if_ they get back into their own bodies, that is. Faith’s still a little shaky on how all of that is supposed to work) for all the days they’ve missed. But that’s a problem for some alternate-dimension-future-version of her, and Faith frankly has bigger fish to fry than her alter-ego’s employment prospects.

They can always just say they had the flu.

But Buffy, of course, isn’t letting a single moment of time go to waste. She wakes up bright and early with the morning sun (because of course she does) and by the time Faith manages to rouse herself from bed she’s already elbow-deep in a stack of books, her nose buried amongst the pages.

Faith yawns, grabs a cup of coffee, and pulls her own pile of books towards her wordlessly.

It’s gonna be another long day. She can already feel it.

(At least they aren’t fighting, yet. That’s a good sign. Maybe the last few days have pushed them into something that sort of resembles peace.)

 

 

Hours. They research for _hours_ , before Faith finally starts complaining. She rolls her neck and pops her spine, stretching her aching, cramping muscles with a loud groan.

Buffy barely looks up from her reading.

Faith’s head is pounding, her eyes swimming with the images of thousands and thousands of words, with hundreds of dusty pages. She rubs at her temples just for something to do with her hands. “B, do you think…?” she finally asks, breaking the silence between them. Buffy looks up from her notes for the first time in nearly three hours. Faith shakes her head. “I mean, should we keep doing this? Spending our time—” she pushes some of the pile away from her— “digging through books that were written like a thousand years ago?”

“You’re just saying that because you’re cranky and all researched-out.”

Faith sniffs. “Two things can be true.”

Buffy rolls her eyes, but it’s more playfully exasperated than truly annoyed. “Research is sort of the only thing we _can_ do about this. Until we know more about what we’re up against, we’re flying blind.” She pauses for a moment. “Unless you have a better idea?”

Faith sighs because, truthfully, she _doesn’t_. She just knows that _currently_ what they’re doing is getting them absolutely fuckin’ nowhere. “Okay, well… What about all that stuff with Riley and Angel? I mean, should we be contacting people from your past, trying to get help…? Don’t you think it’s a little _dangerous_? Giles told us to keep a low profile, and this isn’t exactly—”

Buffy’s jaw clenches. “Giles has been reading for three full days and he has _nothing_ to show for it. So I’m sorry, but I’m not just going to sit around here and wait for him to tell me what to do. I’m not in high school anymore. I don’t need my Watcher telling me how to do my job. And for the record, last I checked, he _left us_ , so excuse me if I don’t want to put all of my faith in him for the millionth time just to be let down again.”

“He didn’t _leave_ , Buffy. He called last night, and—”

Buffy shakes her head. “No. Not… not _Here_. Back home, where we’re from.” Faith doesn’t speak. This is a part of Buffy’s life she rarely discusses around her — the part of her life she lived while Faith was rotting away in some prison cell somewhere. She doesn’t know anything about this particular segment of Buffy’s life, so she listens to her speak with carefully-disguised attention. “He flew back to England and _left me here_ to take care of things—” Buffy says, throwing her pen down in a huff. She stands from the table at once, her chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floors. “Because he thought I didn’t _need him_ anymore.” Her voice gets louder the longer she talks. Angrier. It picks up steam as she begins to pace. “He thought I was relying too much on his help and that—” She stops suddenly and shakes her head. “I’m not some _helpless child_. I don’t need— I can solve this on my own.”

“But,” Faith starts carefully, slowly, trying not to pick a fight (for once), “didn’t you just say? No one knows _anything_. We’ve tried almost everyone we can think of and no one can tell us anything even _sort of_ helpful. Giles is a bust, Riley’s out. Even Angel didn’t know jack.” She drums her fingers against the table. She wonders if she got up, if she stood and made her way over to Buffy, if she wrapped a placating and comforting arm around her shoulders, if Buffy would throw her off or let her be. “Maybe we should just spend a few days and try to work this out on our own. Patrolling out on the town, not… not in here with these.” She gestures down at the cluttered table, before turning a slightly-hopeful smile back Buffy’s way. “Do some old-fashioned hunting, ya know? Like old times.”

“Old times aren’t going to help us get home any faster.”

“But aren’t you getting frustrated with all of this? Everyone around here is _useless_ , Buff. I think if you and I just—”

“We haven’t tried _everyone_.”

“Um, pretty sure we have? Giles and his books, Angel and his weird ass law firm, the goddamn _government_ … who else is there to talk to? Unless you want to call up Cordelia, I really think—”

“Anya.”

“What?”

“We haven’t tried Anya.”

“I don’t understand. The chick who used to be a demon? Why would you want to talk to _her_?”

“When we were in high school, the first time we met Anya, she cursed the entire world. Created an alternate timeline where I’d never come to Sunnydale. The whole place was like a hyper-active Hellmouth. Half the people in town were either vamps or had been killed by vamps, the other half either scared to death or running military operations to try and keep everything locked down.”

Faith frowns. “So you think this could be like that?”

“I think that if Anya can send us all into a spiraling alternate dimension once, she could probably do it again. Or at the very least, she might know someone _else_ who can. She knows more about demons than any book; she’s been alive for like a thousand years.”

“Oh, damn.” Faith shakes her head. “Okay, so how do we get in contact with her?”

Buffy sighs. “We’re gonna have to summon her. And she isn’t gonna be happy about it.”

 

 

“You sure this is how we’re supposed to do this?”

Buffy nods, squinting down at the giant, dusty tome in her hands. “It’s what the book says.”

“Don’t you wanna consult Giles or something first? Just to make sure we haven’t—”

“I think I can manage a little demon summoning ritual,” Buffy states with finality. She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose as she bends down to light one of the candles at their feet. “I’ve been fighting them for years. How hard can it be?”

Faith looks warily down at the collection of ingredients below them. “I don’t know, B. Will it still work if you don’t have any magic?”

“ _Everyone_ has magic. Most people just don’t know how to use it. Willow told me that, once.” She glances up at Faith, something like a grin on her face. “Besides, we’re Slayers. Who has more magic than us?”

Faith makes a noise in the back of her throat as she stands to the side and watches Buffy work. There’s some design Buffy’s painted on the ground, and some sort of herbal concoction burning in a bowl in the center of it. Buffy has a half a dozen candles lit in a circle around them, and she has something that looks suspiciously like blood corked up in a vial near her bowl of salts and rocks. “Can’t believe you had all of this stuff already in the house,” Faith says, bending down to sniff hesitantly at the smoke wafting up from the center of the circle.

“Yeah, it’s kind of unbelievable. Maybe this isn’t the first time we’ve done this.”

“Boy, I hope that’s not true.”

Buffy chuckles as she places the last candle. She bends and picks her book up again, moving to take her designated spot in the circle. She gestures for Faith to stand opposite her, mirroring her, and Faith rolls her eyes but does as she’s instructed.

“You’re _sure_ this is the only way to do this?” she asks one more time. Just in case.

“Yes,” Buffy answers, her attention more than a little diverted to other tasks. “Unless one of us gets dumped and is really itching for some good old-fashioned vengeance.”

“Why can’t we just do that one? I’m always feeling vengeful.”

“I was kidding.”

“I’m not.”

Buffy shakes her head. “It won’t work. Anya specializes in unfaithful _men_. Last I checked, you don’t exactly fit the bill.”

“Puts us _both_ out of the running, then. No men in our lives.”

Buffy shoots her a look. “ _Try_ not to sound so excited about that, maybe?”

Faith raises her hands in mock-surrender. “Heart on my sleeve, B. Just tryna be honest with ya.”

“Well, don’t. It’s distracting.” _That’s_ unexpected. “And I need to make sure I’m getting this Latin right.”

“You tellin’ me I’m distracting?”

“Can it, Faith.” Buffy brings the book a little closer to her face as she squints behind her glasses. “God, I _hate_ that I can’t see. Five years in the future and I need glasses just to _read_? Nightmare.”

“I think you look good. Like a sexy librarian.” Faith immediately brightens. “Hey,” she says with a snap of her fingers, “that’s totally what you are, Here! You’re a sexy librarian!”

Buffy glares even as Faith continues to grin. “Stop.”

Faith sticks out her tongue. Buffy flips her off.

And then she’s speaking Latin — her words are clumsy and a little uneven, but the pronunciation at least _sounds_ right. Faith’s not really a Latin expert, but she’s been around the spell-casting block a few times, and as far as she can tell Buffy’s doing alright. Guess they’ll find out soon.

Almost as soon as the thought enters her mind the air starts crackling with the thrum of untapped electricity, and Faith can smell something sulfurous and burning. She scrunches up her nose as she tries not to breathe in too deeply. Either they’re about to be shish-kabobed, or there’s about to be a very pissed-off demon standing in the middle of Buffy’s basement.

They don’t have to wait long to find out which. As soon as Buffy gets to the end of her passage there’s a waft of smoke, a flickering of the lights, a bright flash of something. They blink and suddenly there, in the middle of their summoning circle, stands a very disgruntled and very put-out demon.

Faith coughs and covers her nose to stop the acrid, sulfurous smoke from getting into her lungs. Buffy blinks a few times as her eyes water against the onslaught. She waves a hand in front of her face and says, with an air of false-happiness, “Anya, hey! You’re looking… demon-y.”

Anyanka glares at them from the center of the circle. “What do you want, Slayer?”

“Ah,” Buffy says, gently depositing her book on the ground, “I’m guessing this means we haven’t met before?”

“No,” she says with a _harrumph_ , “and I’m busy, and I don’t want to talk to you, so just tell me what you need so I can leave, please?”

“Well we…” Buffy glances at Faith, “we need help. Tracking down a demon.”

Anyanka pulls a face. “That’s _it_? _That’s_ what you needed me for? Have you not heard of a locator spell?” She glowers. “I’m busy. Go bother someone else.”

Buffy frowns at her. “Unfortunately, you’re trapped in there until we break the circle—” she gestures down to the candles at their feet— “and we aren’t doing that until you tell us what we need to know. We’re trying to find a demon, you know a lot about demons, so we need your help.”

“Why would you summon _me_? This isn’t what I do. I don’t know you.”

“You kind of do. Somewhere else. It’s hard to explain.”

Anyanka shows approximately 0 interest in _that_ bit of their past, which Faith has to be a little grateful for. She’s not sure she could stand around for another thirty-minute “talk” with another one of Buffy’s former-friends/lovers.

The demon glares at Buffy. “If I help you, will you let me leave your stupid circle?”

Buffy nods. “Absolutely.”

“Fine,” Anyanka says sharply. “You need help finding a demon. I know lots of demons. Tell me what kind it is and I can tell you where you can find them.”

“Well see that’s… sort of the problem,” Buffy interjects. “We don’t _exactly_ know what kind of demon it is.”

Anyanka looks between the two of them with something akin to furious incredulity. “What is _wrong_ with you two?” She asks, bluntly.

Faith bristles. “Look, lady,” she says heatedly, “are you gonna tell us what we need to know, or—”

“Clearly you don’t know _anything_ ,” Anyanka snaps, “so how am I supposed to help you?”

Buffy crosses her arms over her chest. “It would be nice if we knew what we were dealing with.”

“And you don’t have someone who can help you with identification? Aren’t you the _Slayer_? Don’t you have people who work for you? You have to summon a twelve-hundred-year-old Vengeance Demon to do your dirty work?”

Buffy pulls a face. “We’ve been having trouble. The demon, he’s… difficult to pin down.”

Anya sighs, deeply and heavily, before gesturing her hand. “ _Fine_ ,” she says again, “describe your demon. I’ll see what I know. And then you’ll let me leave? This place is…” She looks around Buffy’s basement and turns up her nose, “ _disgusting_.”

“Told you this wasn’t a good idea,” Faith mutters under her breath in Buffy’s general direction.

Buffy ignores her, choosing instead to describe in explicit detail everything she can recall about their demon friend. Anyanka, to her credit, seems to be listening closely, and the more Buffy describes the demon’s appearance and the nuances of their situation, the more she seems to actually grow interested in their conversation.

When Buffy finishes speaking, Anyanka is silent for a few long moments. She taps her chin as her eyes drift to the ceiling, lost in thought. “He sounds like one of the Rwasundi,” she says at last. “Very rare. Their presence in the human dimension creates a kind of localized temporal disturbance. They can make it seem—”

But Buffy cuts her off quickly. “No, no he isn’t Rwasundi. I’ve fought Rwasundi before. Besides, this isn’t a local… temporal… whatsit. This guy isn’t making us see things that aren’t there. We’re not _from_ this dimension.”

Anyanka frowns thoughtfully. “Okay,” she says. “Tell me again what your demon looks like?”

Faith shrugs. “Huge. Red. Giant claws on his hands. Super fucking ugly, too, if that helps.”

“Hmm…” Anyanka pauses for a moment. “Any telepathic abilities?”

Buffy’s brow furrows a little. “Actually, now that you mention it… yeah. Yeah, I think so. When we were fighting it, it seemed to always sort of be one step ahead of us. Like it knew what we were going to do.”

Anyanka’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, her gaze fixed on some indiscriminate point above Buffy’s head. She stands still for several long moments, frowning deeply in concentration. “Could be the Vocare,” she says after a few more moments, barely shifting in position at all.

Buffy looks confused. “The who now?”

“The Vocare,” Anyanka repeats, turning her attention back to the two women. “They’re an ancient sect of demons. Been around since basically the dawn of time. Well… _human_ time, that is. Their name literally means ‘to name, to call, to summon.’ They travel and hunt alone, so you’ll never see two in the same place or time. Some ancient human tribes even thought they were the Devil-incarnate. That’s probably why all your Hollywood movies make the Devil look red. Because the Vocare are red.”

“But…” Buffy splutters, “I’ve never heard of them. If they’ve been around since the dawn of time, why don’t I know about them? How come I’ve never seen one before?”

“ _Well_ ,” Anyanka says slowly, like she’s explaining something very simple to a very stupid child, “these guys, they’re like those ghosts in your Christmas story. The one with the nice old man who wanted to protect his fortune from the dirty street urchins.”

Faith snorts. “You mean _A Christmas Carol_? Your takeaway from that book was that Scrooge was the _good guy_?”

Anyanka nods. “Yes. Him. The man with the money.”

Faith shakes her head, sighing loudly, but Buffy shushes her quickly. “Sorry, Anya,” she says with a glare in Faith’s direction. “You were saying?”

“Right, well… these Vocare demons work like the ghosts from that story. They show up in moments of great conflict. But not just any little tiff. Huge wars, uncomfortable stand-offs. You know… end-of-the-world type conflict. And then they use their extensive magic to show you alternative timelines, dimensions, futures, or pasts to try and teach you some big, life-altering lesson about becoming a better person, or… _whatever_.” She rolls her eyes. “It only works about fifty percent of the time. The other half of the time, the people they magic usually just end up killing themselves. Or each other. Depends on the situation.” Buffy and Faith share a significant look, but neither chooses to say anything. Anyanka continues on like she hasn’t noticed anything unusual (and going off of Faith’s memory of her and her narcissism, she thinks it’s pretty likely that she _hasn’t_ actually noticed anything unusual). “They’re real jerks, too,” Anyanka huffs. “Terrible at parties. They just… stand around and glare at you all high-and-mighty like they’re the kings of the underworld. Well, _I’ve_ done some pretty life-and-world-altering stuff, too. I once turned an unfaithful husband into a 200-foot worm! How’s _that_ for some end-of-humankind magic?”

Faith pulls a face. “ _End_ of humankind?” she asks quietly, more to herself than anyone else.

Buffy just sighs. “Wait,” she says, holding out a hand to stop Anyanka from speaking any more. “So, you’re saying we just have to figure out his stupid angle and then we’ll be good? We have to have some sort of epiphany about where we’re from or what we’ve done and then he’ll let us go?”

Anyanka shrugs. “It might be a _little_ more complicated than that, but…” she shifts— “basically. That tends to work. As long as you don’t kill each other first, that is.”

“Right,” Faith says, “just as long as we don’t do that. Should be a piece of cake. Right, B?”

Buffy clenches her jaw tight. “Don’t push it.”

“If you’re both done,” Anyanka interjects from her spot next to them, “I’d quite like to leave, now. Unless either of you wants to wish for some _actual_ vengeance, I have a job I have to be getting back to.”

Buffy shakes her head and smiles almost ruefully. “No, Anya that’s… that’s alright. No vengeance on the menu today.”

“Pity,” Anyanka says. She speaks to Buffy but her eyes skim down Faith’s body like she’s staring directly into her soul. Faith crosses her arms over her chest defensively. “Could do you some good,” Anyanka says, but Faith can’t be sure to whom she’s speaking. “Scorned women come up with the _best_ vengeance.”

Something in Faith’s chest tightens, and she narrows her eyes.

“No vengeance, Anya,” Buffy asserts firmly.

Anyanka sighs dramatically. “Well, _fine_. If you’re going to be no fun.” She shoots them both a sarcastic little wave. “Good luck, or whatever. Hope you get back to where you belong soon. The sooner the better, actually, because the two of you _clearly_ don’t belong in this dimension and you’re causing all sorts of rifts in the Hellmouth energy and it’s making the people I work with very uncomfortable.”

“You mean the other demons?”

She turns her nose up in Faith’s direction. “Well, you could at least _try_ not to say it like it’s such a dirty word.”

“Believe me,” Faith says, “we’re leaving the second we figure out how.”

Buffy, once again, ignores her. “Thanks for all your help, Anya,” she says sincerely. “Hope you have a good… vengeance… filled day.” She bends down and blows out one of the candles, effectively breaking the circle.

Anyanka levels them both with one more disgruntled look before she disappears immediately off into a cloud of smoke.

As soon as she’s gone Buffy claps her hands together and nods firmly. “Right!” she says, mouth set in a determined line. “This is good. We have a name; we have a species. That means we can find out how to stop it, how to kill it, how to get home.” She grins. “This is great news. Now we just have to call Giles and let him know.”

“Right,” Faith says quietly, feeling somewhat less-than-enthused. “Great news.”

____________________

Giles’ eyes are narrowed behind his glasses, focused and intense upon the two women currently inhabiting his living room. “The Vocare, you say?”

Buffy nods. “That’s what Anya told us.”

“And this… this _Anya_ ,” he clears his throat. “She’s a reliable source, yes?”

“She’s a Vengeance Demon.”

Giles coughs around his mouthful of tea. “I’m sorry?”

Faith sighs, bringing an arm up to cover her eyes. “It’s a long story, G-man,” she says from her spot on the couch.

“She’s right,” Buffy agrees. “It’s… complicated. But yes, she’s a reliable source. Mostly-reliable. We’re pretty sure. _I’m_ pretty sure.”

Giles nods slowly, his gaze flicking between the two of them. “Right. Yes. Well, that’s good.” He moves back towards his table and the mountain of books piled on top of it, approaching it with new determination and vitality. “Make yourselves at home, you two,” he says, even though Faith is already two steps ahead of him. She’s already sprawled on his couch, her shoes kicked up on his coffee table. “This may take a while.”

 

 

It takes almost two hours. Faith has just started dozing off, her head nodding down to her chest, when she hears the loud _thunk_ of a heavy book being dropped onto wood and she bolts upright in her spot.

“Yes!” Giles says excitedly, pointing down to the book he has only just dropped onto the table in front of her.

Faith squints down at the page, her eyes a little blurry and unfocused. “Sorry, what am I looking at?”

“Come in here, Buffy!” he calls, not bothering to answer Faith’s question. Buffy wanders in from the kitchen, a cup of coffee in hand. She moves around the couch, perching lightly next to Faith on the sofa, bending low over the thick text.

“You found them?” she asks.

Giles nods vigorously. “Yes. The Vocare. I should have remembered sooner. But look, here,” he sits down on Faith’s other side, and she suddenly finds herself in the most uncomfortable person-sandwich of her entire life. No one else seems to notice her discomfort, though, and she’s not sure whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

“The Vocare are an ancient sect of demon,” he reads, his finger tracing underneath the words. “They are drawn to conflict and battle, often showing up before great wars, feuds, acts of violence and terrorism, betrayal, and death.” Faith stares down at the page. Nothing about this is making her feel any better about their situation _whatsoever_. (She’s not sure why Giles is so freaking _thrilled_ about this.) “The Vocare feed on anger, hostility, and bloodlust. They are meddlesome creatures, prone to narcissistic delusions of grandeur. They are also idealistic.” Giles taps his finger on the next passage. “The Vocare are known for trapping their victims in alternate versions of reality and feeding on the chaos and disarray produced thereafter.”

“What does it say about beating them?” Buffy asks. (Faith, for her part, is still having a little trouble getting over the whole _‘showing up before great wars and violence’_ deal.) “Anya said something about them teaching us a lesson?”

“Yes,” Giles nods, “apparently they enjoy… well, there’s no polite way to put this. They enjoy putting their victims through a series of emotional tortures and watching the after-effects.”

“Why would they do that?” Buffy asks, confused.

All Faith can think is: **_This_** _is their idea of torture?_

Giles pulls off his glasses and uses the tail of his shirt to rub the lenses clean. “It’s unclear if it’s for a sadistic pleasure, or something they need to do to survive. But it doesn’t appear to matter to them whether or not their victims, well… _live_.” He places his glasses back on the bridge of his nose delicately. “They consume the energy of the lives left behind. The disorder of the _original_ world matters, not the alternative reality. Keeping their victims separate from their original timeline allows them to feed. Everything else is just… for fun.”

Faith sighs. “So basically, we’re fucked?”

“No. Not exactly. It says here that the Vocare gain their power through their talismans.”

“Talisman?” Buffy interjects quickly, craning her neck to squint down at the pages of the book. She rests her elbow on Faith’s knee to get closer, and the soft contact is so quiet and so natural that Faith can’t help but shiver. “Anya never mentioned any talisman.”

“I told you we shouldn’t have trusted her,” Faith mutters. The entire left side of her body feels like it’s on fire. She can feel every inch of skin Buffy is touching, and the sensation is making her a little dizzy. (They’ve never done this before. They’ve never sat so close together or worked in such tight comradery. Buffy doesn’t touch her without thinking, doesn’t rest elbows on Faith’s knees, doesn’t lean into her side, doesn’t put a hand on the small of her back.)

(What the fuck is happening?)

Giles ignores them both, focused as he is on the reading in front of him. “There’s no telling what the talisman might be — each one is different, after all — but it would be prominent, and likely very near to the demon. They cannot let it out of their sight for too long, you see, because they need to keep it safe. Without the talisman, the whole world around them would crumble, and they would cease to exist. Break the talisman, and you break the spell.”

“So… all we have to do is find and destroy this talisman thing? That’s easy.”

“Easier said than done, I’m afraid,” Giles says with a frown. “The Vocare are immensely crafty. They possess telepathic abilities, allowing them to read the minds of any creature which is capable of conscious thought. They have the ability to camouflage themselves, making them nearly impossible to hunt or track. They’re incredibly fast, too. And, from what this book seems to suggest, they may have the ability to travel at will between dimensions.”

It’s quiet in the room for a few long moments.

“So _basically_ ,” Faith finally says, slowly, “we’re fucked?”

“I… no. I believe, with the proper training and equipment… if you are both especially vigilant, you may be able to—”

“But that could take months!” Buffy exclaims, standing from the couch. She looks frustrated, and angry, and Faith doesn’t exactly blame her for that. “It could be _months_ before we get out of here!”

“I’m not saying it’s a good solution, Buffy. I’m saying it’s the only one available to us.”

“Screw that,” she scoffs. “I’m not waiting around for that.”

Giles’ nose flares, just a bit. “Buffy, I urge you to use caution. Rushing into things can’t—”

The sound of Buffy’s cell phone ringing cuts into the tension in the room. Buffy huffs, turning away from her Watcher as she presses the speaker button. “Riley?” she asks at once, which makes Faith wonder both how he has her number and how she knew he was going to call. But she doesn’t get the chance to ask.

_“Buffy, hi.”_

“Boy, you have good timing,” she says, shooting Giles a disgruntled look. “Please tell me that you have something for us.”

_“Yup. Demon matching your guy’s description was just spotted to the North East of the cemetery, heading into the woods just off of Oakridge.”_

Buffy nods as she throws her jacket over her shoulders. Faith is already elbows-deep in Giles’ weapons chest, pulling battle axes and swords and stakes from within its depths. “Riley, you’re a life saver,” she says, holding a hand out as Faith slips a knife into her palm. “You’ve really been a ton of help. I can’t thank you enough.”

 _“Happy to do it,”_ he says, and Faith has to give him credit, because he at least _sounds_ genuine. _“Do you need any backup? Ground support?”_

“We’ve got it from here, Army Ken,” Faith calls from by the door, bouncing her foot impatiently while she waits for Buffy to hurry the hell up so they can leave. “If you two are done braiding each others’ hair?” she mutters under her breath, tapping her wrist in Buffy’s direction, but Buffy just waves her off.

Riley snorts. _“Army Ken?”_ he asks, almost incredulously. _“C’mon, Faith, you can do better than **that**. The G.I. Joe insult was just **dangling** out there.”_

Faith glares down at the phone in Buffy’s palm. “Already used that one, Farm Hand Luke,” she snaps. “Can’t go around rehashing my old material.”

He chuckles through the line. _“Well, best of luck to you both. Call me if you need anything else. I’ll have troops on standby, just in case.”_

“Thanks again, Riley,” Buffy says, right before she hangs up.

“Buffy,” Giles tries to call, “I really don’t think this is the best idea.”

They both ignore him. Faith shoots Buffy a look. “What, you’re just gonna skip your ‘ _You hang up, no **you** hang up,’_ ritual? Don’t let me stop ya, B. I’m sure we’ve got _hours_ of time before we lose his trail. Please, call your boyfriend back and tell him how much you miss him.”

Buffy growls. “If this thing doesn’t kill us tonight I _swear_ I’m gonna slug you.”

“Promises, promises.”

____________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [ tumblr. ](https://morningsound15.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (She can’t help but feel a little like Hansel and Gretel, following a trail of breadcrumbs to an old witch’s house in the forest. She just hopes that this story doesn’t end with them being eaten.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to split the last chapter in half. I just started writing and the ending of the story got away from me, and it was massively too big for just one chapter. So… on the plus side, the update is out earlier. On the downside, the story still isn’t totally finished.
> 
> Basically, I just wanted to spend an entire 2 chapters digging into Faith’s inner thoughts and feelings as well as really taking apart and examining her relationship with Buffy. So it’s a lot of character drama (which I personally love) and dialogue. I’m kinda meh on how some of the scenes play out, so may go back and redo those, but… yeah. I hope you all like it.
> 
>  **WARNING:** Brief mentions of suicide and suicidal thoughts in this chapter. Very brief, nothing explicit.

____________________

Faith doesn’t like the woods. She never has, really. Having grown up in Boston, she’s always been more comfortable around the seedy underbelly of the darkest areas of urban decay than even the lushest of forest landscapes.

Faith doesn’t like the woods, because she doesn’t trust what she doesn’t know, and she’s never known a forest to make sense. She can’t pick her way through dense foliage, can’t ever seem to follow a path or navigate herself out of thick trees. She doesn’t like how cold forests get, how they descend into utter darkness when the sun goes down. She doesn’t like the bugs or the smell or the predators lurking just out of sight. She doesn’t understand what people see in camping; can’t even begin to fathom how anyone in their right mind would voluntarily choose to leave the air-conditioned comfort of suburban living to sleep _outside_ , on the _ground_ , with no electricity or indoor plumbing. Faith has first-hand experience with what that’s like. She’s been without money, without friends or family, without food or a place to crash for the night. She’s slept outside on the ground enough for _four_ lifetimes, thanks, so she doesn’t really jive with the whole _hipster eco-simplistic-minimalism_ trend that so many people are buying into these days. That whole crunchy granola California aesthetic is _not_ something she’s about.

(Try being homeless with no place to sleep, no food, in the middle of a New England winter, and _then_ see how much you like sleeping outside. For _fun_ , too, no less.)

(Assholes.)

Faith doesn’t like the woods (Buffy got hurt in the woods Buffy almost died in the woods). And because the universe doesn’t like Faith, it really makes sense that she’d have to hunt this demon down in them.

She and Buffy reach the north end of the cemetery quickly, walking swiftly in-step, a crackling energy sparking the air between them. As much as she doesn’t like the woods, she _does_ enjoy a good hunt, and tonight seems as good a night as they’re ever going to get: cloudless, with a soft breeze and a near-full moon illuminating the world around them. Visibility will be good, even amongst the trees. That’s good.

Faith shoots Buffy a look once they get to the edge of the tree line. They both pause, almost instinctively. “You good, B?” Faith asks carefully.

Buffy nods once, adjusting her grip on her knife. “Let’s go kill something.”

Faith grins wolfishly, something predatory in her eyes. “Lead the way.

 

 

For how much trouble he’s given them over the past week, the demon is surprisingly easy to find. Which _can’t_ be a good thing, Faith thinks glumly, because for a guy who can supposedly read minds and camouflage himself and travel at will between dimensions, he’s doing a pretty piss-poor job of keeping himself hidden, tonight. He’s blundering through the woods, his hulking frame visible between the shadows of the trees and the leaves, the red of his skin gleaming in sporadic splashes of moonlight.

Buffy and Faith follow behind him carefully, silently. But he knows they’re there; there’s no way he doesn’t. And maybe it’s something about their new, older age, or maybe it’s something about how suspiciously _easy_ this all appears to be, but neither Buffy nor Faith seems particularly inclined to leap forward and try their luck with a fight. And, if Faith’s being honest, she thinks that’s pretty smart of them. They barely made it out alive last time, and only really managed to do so because the demon got bored of trying to kill them and _let them escape_. If Faith thought they had the jump on him tonight, it might be another story entirely, but there’s no _way_ he doesn’t know that they’re following behind him.

As if to confirm Faith’s suspicions, the demon starts to pause and change his behavior. Every once in a while he turns, like he’s glancing over his shoulder to make sure they’re still on his trail. He seems unhurried, almost leisurely, and it would be infuriating if it wasn’t also so _confusing_.

There’s a reason he’s doing this, a reason he’s allowing himself to be seen, a reason he’s allowing them to follow him. There _has_ to be. He’s definitely walking in a purposeful direction, and if Faith were to guess, she’d say that it looks like he’s trying to _lead_ them somewhere. Faith isn’t sure where, but he’s not directionless; he obviously knows where he’s going. (She’s also not positive that this isn’t a trap because it _definitely_ feels like a trap.)

He’s leading them somewhere, and they’re following behind him like lambs to the slaughter. Which is maybe probably almost _definitely_ a mistake, but no one in their bizarre little trio seems willing to break this tense sort of stand-off that they’re in. No one seems willing to make a move toward violence. And Faith has to figure that if he’s not trying to kill them immediately, then that probably means he wants them alive for _something_. And she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t incredibly curious as to what that reason might be.

Also — and she hopes this goes without saying — they need to keep him alive long enough to find the talisman. She knows Buffy is thinking the same thing, can see the thought flicker across her face as she adjusts her grip on her knife once again, contemplating. Not that they’d necessarily have the best odds going _mano a mano_ in a fight right now, but either way they can’t risk it. He dies, and they may lose their chance to go home. And Faith knows that Buffy finds that option unacceptable.

They can’t risk it.

He takes a sharp and unexpected turn into a cave, and Buffy picks up her pace, hurrying after him. But Faith grabs her arm, pulling her to a stop. “Buffy…” she warns quietly, her eyes darting nervously around. She’s never liked the woods. “Are you sure… I mean, doesn’t this sort of feel like, y’know… a trap?”

Buffy nods, her expression grim. “Yeah. It does.”

“Okay, cool. I guess… as long as we both know?”

So Faith follows Buffy into the cave.

(She can’t help but feel a little like Hansel and Gretel, following a trail of breadcrumbs to an old witch’s house in the forest. She just hopes that this story doesn’t end with them being eaten.)

 

 

Why do demons always have to have lairs? What’s wrong with a nice two-bedroom apartment, a spacious condo over in the good part of town? What is it about non-humans that makes them so averse to creature comforts? Like, just because you got claws and some scaly skin, you can’t get behind indoor plumbing and air conditioning?

Faith’s never understood the appeal of lairs. She’s never understood why a demon would rather live in a cave than a perfectly decent hotel room with a TV and a mini-bar and maybe a gaming system to mess around with. But even she’s gotta reluctantly admit, as fair as lairs go, this guy’s got a pretty top-notch setup. He could have ordered it straight from a _Crate & Barrel _catalog. If _Crate & Barrel _had an exclusive line of candles, skulls, and furniture made out of granite and shaped to the interior of a dark, damp, gross cave, that is.

Still, she appreciates the commitment to the aesthetic, if nothing else.

Buffy moves forward into the cavern, her eyes flicking around the space. Buffy’s always been a smart, tactical fighter (though Faith would never admit that to her face), and Faith knows exactly what she’s doing. Assessing the space, looking for potential enemies, mapping possible escape routes, scanning for dangers and weapons and getting a feel for the terrain. She makes her evaluation in the span of a few short seconds, and something in the set of her shoulders makes Faith feel relieved.

Faith decides to hang back, covering their only exit. There’s a comfort to their positions. Like they have him trapped, rather than the other way around.

Only time will tell if that’s the truth.

They’re stuck in the middle of a quiet stalemate. Just Faith, Buffy, and the demon standing against a far wall. All staring at each other, seemingly wary to make a move.

Never one to sit in a tense silence for very long, Buffy finally asks, with something like impatience, “So… what now?”

The demon moves in the shadows, his form shifting as it catches patches of bright, open air. The candlelight illuminating the room flickers, giving him an eerie appearance. He seems to grow and shrink, undulating, dilating in size. Faith can’t be sure if he’s actually physically changing or if it’s a trick of the light, something about altered perceptions or the lateness of the hour, but either way, it’s unsettling.

A gust of wind from outside threatens the integrity of the fire, and Faith has a moment of intense panic as the light shudders and nearly shivers out. But the wind dies, the light returns, and the demon continues to pace. The candles glow, and there’s a bright patch near the center of the room, something that looks like a circle of embers, the light pulsing brighter and softer almost like a heartbeat.

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t do anything more than slink back and forth along the wall. Stalking, slithering.

Buffy huffs. “Not very talkative, I’m guessing.”

“Why did you bring us here?” Faith calls next. “And I don’t just mean to your cave. Which, seriously man, y’ever thought about getting an interior decorator?” She’s hoping to draw some kind of reaction from him. She figures that… well, if they’re about to be killed, at least she can try to get some answers out of the guy first.

But her goading fails to elicit a response, either. So Faith tries a different tactic. “What was the point of this whole psychedelic vision quest journey thing anyway?” she asks, making sure to keep one eye on the demon’s claws and the other on Buffy’s back (just in case). “Because from where I’m sitting, all you managed to do was screw my weekend and piss off two Slayers. So you better have a pretty damn good explanation for yourself.”

The demon smiles, his mouth curling open, vicious and sharp. It bears no resemblance to the smiles Faith is used to, possesses nothing of the warmth and lightness that that expression usually prompts. His amusement is apparent, his glee at their confusion obvious, but it’s a cruel, sickening sort of enjoyment. Condescension. _Schadenfreude_.

Faith really wants to punch him.

If she weren’t glaring daggers at the demon already, Faith might have thought she imagined what happens next. His mouth doesn’t move, but still a voice sounds in their heads, so loud that Faith has to clench her teeth tightly to fight against a grimace. Buffy wavers in front of her, pale and visibly off-balance.

_You needed to see._

Even his telepathic voice sounds slippery, all long ‘S’ sounds that draw parallels to serpentine deception.

Buffy, for her part, looks as unsettled as Faith feels. Clearly neither one of them enjoys the feeling of having another voice in their head. “See _what_ , exactly?” Buffy asks, angry now at the invasion of privacy, at the intrusion into her mind and thoughts.

Faith wonders why she seems so defensive. What is Buffy trying to protect? What is she afraid he might find, if he digs deep enough?

Buffy’s nostrils flare.

_You needed to see._

“Yeah, you said that already,” Buffy growls.

He stares them down, all of his eyes open and unblinking.

Faith sighs. “Alright, I’ll play. What did we need to _see_ , exactly? This alternate universe? The way things coulda been if we’d both just kept our mouths shut and worked alone like we were supposed to? The kid all grown up? Our friends alive and happy? Buffy’s face with a whole buncha wrinkles?”

“Faith…”

“Sorry, B. Humor as a deflecting tool.”

_You needed to see._

“If he says that one more time I swear to God…”

“Be quiet for like twelve seconds, please?”

“C’mon, Buffy. He isn’t—”

“Just shut up for half a minute. I can figure this out.”

Faith grumbles but closes her lips.

Buffy looks at the monster in front of them. He poses a much less intimidating figure without his talons extended. “Okay, so… you scratch me, you scratch Faith. We go to bed and wake up the next morning… Here. Wherever ‘Here’ is, anyway. We know that for sure. We don’t know how, but more importantly, we don’t know _why_. Why drop us into another universe and then stay hidden the whole time? Why bring us here, if it wasn’t to kill us? What purpose does it serve except to drive us crazy?”

_You needed to—_

“Yeah, that was actually rhetorical. No talking from you yet. Shush.” Buffy chews on her lip, deep in thought. Faith watches her with a kind of reverence she can’t keep off her face. She’s glad Buffy isn’t looking at her; glad she can’t see her expression. “Okay, so… you brought us here. Specifically, me and Faith. Specifically us, to a universe where we haven’t murdered each other and we’re getting along great, where we’re married and cohabiting and life is amazing and lovely and everything is a breeze. We’ve got a great setup here, what with the house and the friends and the Watcher and the fulfilling daytime jobs. And it doesn’t make any sense. Nothing about this makes sense. Because if there’s one thing I know about demons, it’s that they aren’t exactly known for their altruism. So there must be _some_ reason to do it.

“At first I thought it was because everything here was all kinds of wrong; the kinds of wrong you can’t see unless you’re on the outside, looking in. I thought for sure someone was in trouble, or you were setting us up to be an easier meal, or we were going to have to avert the apocalypse again, or that there was something here worthy of dragging two fully-grown Slayers across multiple dimensions.” She pauses for a moment, almost like she’s evaluating him. “But it wasn’t any of that, was it? Everything here is _fine_. And that was the first tip off that something really was _wrong_. Because we’re _Slayers_. Nothing that happens to us is ever fine, or good, or right.”

The demon opens its yawning maw and emits a low and prolonged clicking sound from somewhere deep within its throat. Faith can’t tell if that’s supposed to be a confirmation or a denial.

But Buffy continues on as if she hadn’t even noticed. “It’s because of us, isn’t it? It’s Buffy and Faith. _We’re_ the real problem. That’s what this is all about. You needed us to see what we were missing out on by holding grudges and not trusting each other and treating each other like enemies instead of allies. You wanted to show us what we could have had, to taunt us with this… this perfect other reality.” Faith blinks at that. This is Buffy’s idea of _perfect?_ “To make us hate each other, or… to drive us crazy, or get us to kill each other, or something.” The demon shifts in front of them, blinking. “Am I close?”

_Yesss._

“Okay, so, we figured it out. Yay. Great riddle. Really superb job. Excellent work. Now send us home, please.”

_I cannot._

Buffy’s face scrunches up, her brow furrowed and her teeth grinding together. “What do you _mean,_ ‘you cannot.’ You _brought us_ here, didn’t you? Now just send us _back_.”

_You have not seen._

Faith wants to hit something. Preferably the monster in front of her, but frankly, she isn’t feeling particularly picky at the moment. “What are you talking about?” she exclaims. “We’ve _seen_! Buffy figured out your stupid game. Quest over, mission complete, lesson learned. We need to be a better team because we’re the only two Slayers blah blah blah _we get it_. Now send us home.”

_You have not seen._

Buffy growls and Faith groans out loud. “ _Fuck_ this guy is annoying. Can I please hit him, now?”

“Not yet.”

“Screw this, B. We’ve tried your way. Clearly you’re not gonna get anything out of him.”

“Faith, no!” Buffy tries to warn, but it comes a moment too late. As soon as Faith steps into the center of the room, the Vocare is upon her, his long, trunk-like arm reaching out faster than she can blink. He has her by the neck a moment later, and Faith scrambles for purchase on the iron-clad grip as he lifts her easily off the ground. She kicks her legs out, slamming her knees into his torso, but he doesn’t even seem to feel it. She grapples for her knife, tries to stab at him, sink the blade into the flesh of his forearm, but the blade _dings_ off his scales and snaps clean in half. He tightens his hold and Faith’s kicks weaken as her breath gets cut off.

“Faith!” Buffy calls, immediately charging forward, but the demon holds out his other arm. His claws extend out like knives. A clear threat.

 _NO,_ he says simply, and Buffy freezes where she stands.

Out of the corner of her eye, Faith can see Buffy swallow thickly. “Let her go,” she says, shaky, like she has any authority here; like she’s in any position to be making demands.

Faith’s vision starts to go grey, the edges of her eyesight blacking out.

_No._

Buffy’s eyes dart around the cave before pausing on something near the far wall. She snaps her attention back to the demon. “I know where your talisman is,” she says with ice in her voice. The demon’s eyes blink slowly in response, but otherwise he doesn’t react. “Let her go and I won’t break it. The world keeps turning, you keep feeding.”

Another hiss. _You think you can reach it before I snap her neck?_

“You need this universe to exist in order to feed, to stay alive. Do you really want to take that chance?”

“Buffy…” Faith wheezes, struggling weakly in the demon’s hold. “Don’t… just get…”

Buffy shakes her head. “I’m not about to let you die.”

“Won’t-won’t matter… if we’re stuck here…”

“Well, I’m not staying stuck here without you.”

If he had the capacity for any emotion besides _malice,_ Faith would almost say the demon looks _pleased._ His mouth opens wide, his teeth gleaming, in something like a perverse imitation of a smile.

_We have a deal, Slayer._

Faith blinks, and suddenly she’s crumpled in a heap on the floor, and he’s gone. Disappeared out into the night without a trace.

____________________

The walk back to Buffy’s house is awkward. Most one-on-one interactions with Buffy these days are awkward anyway, Faith can cop to that, but this one… this one feels particularly bad. Partly because Faith understands the fact that she royally fucked up — it’s definitely possible she ruined their only decent shot at ever getting home — and it’s pretty much entirely her fault.

Fuck. Buffy’s going to _murder_ her.

She keeps her head down and her hands stuffed in her pockets as she follows one half-step behind Buffy all the way to the Summers residence. Buffy doesn’t even look at her once, but the way she walks, the way she _breathes_ … it all radiates anger.

Faith thinks she’s probably about to get her ass whopped.

(She’s not sure she should do anything to stop it.)

But Faith doesn’t handle guilt well. She never has. Even now, now that she’s (ostensibly) older and wiser and, like… _partially_ rehabilitated, or whatever, she is still _not_ a fan of the guilty feelings. Especially when she felt like she genuinely _was_ acting in good-faith. Like, yeah, she was stupid and a little reckless, but Buffy didn’t have a plan _either._ What was she gonna do, _talk_ him to death? Confuse him with a wicked display of verbal ingenuity? Convince him through the power of her good looks and sickening charm that he should let them get out of here, _pretty please and with sugar on top?_

Fuck that.

And _fuck her_ for giving up their only bargaining chip! Like yeah, Faith acted like an impulsive asshole, but Buffy just stood there and watched him almost choke her to death! And she didn’t do anything about it! Not even one of her patented slow left-crosses to try and help Faith out. They were supposed to be a team, dammit. Where did she get off just letting Faith dangle there, suffocating?

Also, now that she’s thinking about this (and getting more and more agitated the longer she considers the circumstances surrounding her internal tirade), what the _fuck_ did Buffy think she was doing, trying to convince this demon that she knew where he kept his talisman? What kind of lie was _that_? Was she _actively_ trying to get Big Red And Ugly to call her on it? And look, it’s not like Faith has any _real_ stake in her own survival (she could take or leave a quick, painless death at this point; ‘specially if it meant she got to get the hell out of dodge. Only reason she really bothers sticking around and staying alive is so she can make sure Buffy doesn’t somehow get herself eaten by being all _stupid_ and _heroic_ and _self-sacrificing_ ), but how _dare_ Buffy bargain with her life like that? What the fuck was she playing at?

As they get closer and closer to Buffy’s house, Faith finds herself getting angrier and angrier. Yeah, she can recognize her own fault in the situation — she can definitely see how she fucked up — but Buffy fucked up, too. What was she _thinking,_ walking into that cave without a plan? What did she think she was going to be able to do? This might have been their _one_ shot at getting home in one piece, and they blew it because they were both too reckless, both too impatient.

Can’t ever sit down and _think_ for a fucking second before they gotta barrel off towards the first sign of a fight, the first sign of trouble. It’s the goddamn Curse of the Slayer, that’s what it is.

Faith’s sick of it.

They’re climbing the steps of Buffy’s front porch, now, and Faith has just made the executive decision that she’s gonna confront Buffy about her reckless, bullshit-y, devil-may-care attitude, when Buffy turns around at the door and punches Faith, _hard,_ right on her left shoulder.

“Ow!” Faith yells, jumping back and grabbing at the injured area. “What the hell was _that_ for?”

“I promised you a punch earlier tonight. And you deserved more than that, so count yourself lucky.”

Faith glowers. “Yeah, well…” She rubs at her smarting shoulder, her ego more than a little bruised. “Well, that was a stupid bluff, back there.”

Buffy rolls her eyes. “‘Oh _thank you_ , Buffy’,” she says mockingly as she pushes the door open. Thank God Dawn’s staying at school tonight, otherwise she _definitely_ would have been privy to (what Faith predicts is about to be) their now-building argument. “‘You saved my life. Risking your happiness and our chance to get home to save someone like little old _me_? What _ever_ will I do to repay you?’” Buffy mocks, with one hand over her heart. Her face falls and she lowers her voice, sets her jaw, and squares her shoulders. She puts her hands on her hips, and Faith sees for a moment a brief flash of a _Superman_ comic wherein the titular hero stands in a similar pose, chest puffed-out and an all-righteous, all-knowing, self-congratulating grin pulling his lips into a plastic smile. All glittering teeth and perfectly-coiffed hair. “Don’t worry about it, Faith,” Buffy continues with that same melodramatic flair. “All in a day’s work.” She shoots her own glare in Faith’s direction and drops the affectation from her voice. “But for the record: _you’re welcome_. I’m glad your head is still attached to your body.”

Faith huffs, shooting a short blast of air through her nose. She crosses her arms over her chest and kicks the door closed behind her. “I had it under control.”

Buffy kicks her shoes off by the door. They hit the wall and fall into a heap on the floor. Faith follows her lead. “Like hell you did. You were about to be shish kabob-ed.”

Well, she may be right about that, but it doesn’t mean Faith has to admit it. “It was still stupid, and you shouldn’t’ve done it.” Because it _was_ stupid. What the hell was Buffy thinking, throwing away their chance at getting out of here? Faith had him _distracted_. Buffy should have just taken the opportunity to either kill him or find his stupid talisman. The fact that she didn’t makes absolutely no sense.

It’s not like she gives a damn about whether or not Faith lives or dies. Just because they fucked _once_ doesn’t mean they now have some kind of crazy emotional connection, or anything like that. She had her opportunity, her chance to go home… and she threw it away. For what? For _Faith_? Bullshit.

But Buffy just scoffs. “I wasn’t about to watch you get decapitated,” she says. “I don’t make enough money to send myself to therapy three times a week. And that’s a conservative estimate on the amount of time I’d have to spend in counseling, if we’re being honest, because the idea of seeing someone’s _head_ separate from their _body_ …”

“I’ve _personally_ seen you cut off a vamp’s head.”

“Yeah, well… they don’t _bleed_ when you do that; they just turn into dust. Also, they’re demons without souls. Sort of puts a damper on the whole ‘feeling empathetic for them’ thing.”

“So _that’s_ why you wanted to keep me alive? _Empathy?_ ” Faith asks, unconvinced, still looking for some sort of explanation. She doesn’t understand why Buffy did what she did. Because logically, (and she knows she sounds like a broken record, here, but it bears repeating:) it _doesn’t make sense_.

(So maybe, just maybe, that means Buffy wasn’t thinking logically. But is that even possible? Does Faith even dare to hope for something like that?)

“Give it a rest, Faith.” Buffy sounds exasperated. She makes her way into the kitchen and slumps against the counter. She looks exhausted. Faith follows after her carefully, loitering in the open doorway. She’s not even really sure if they’re _fighting_ right now. They’re saying things they would usually say in a fight, but it doesn’t _feel_ like a fight, for some reason. Faith feels extraordinarily out-matched, like everything she says is just grasping for straws. Like she’s trying to goad Buffy into anger, because anger, at least, she understands; she knows how to _deal_ with anger, she knows how to fight with Buffy. She understands when they’re angry with each other; it’s a comfortable place for them to be in. (She doesn’t want to think about the way Buffy looked inside the cave, nervous and scared and worried. She doesn’t want to think about the way Buffy looked when the demon finally dropped her — that moment of relief that washed over her. She doesn’t want to think about the way Buffy looks right now, slumped over and tired and worn-out; defeated; trying to regroup.)

Buffy sighs loudly. “What were you even _thinking_ ,” she asks, rounding on Faith, “taking a swing at him like that?”

Faith feels the sudden urge to defend herself. She remembers her anger from earlier, remembers the way she felt when she was following Buffy up her front porch. She may have fucked up tonight, but she isn’t the _only_ one. And Buffy can’t exclusively blame her for it. “I was _thinking_ that talking was getting us nowhere,” she says hotly. “No one ever talked a demon out of his nefarious, no-good-dirty-rotten schemes before, B. Forgive me for not believing it would happen, even for someone like you.”

Buffy growls. “I had a handle on the situation. I had a _plan._ Make him think we were on the wrong track, that we had no idea about his talisman, so that he’d let his guard down and _reveal something._ ” Faith swallows, trying not to feel reprimanded. “But you just _had_ to go and do something stupid. God, you can never just _trust_ me. Unless your fist is connecting with some poor guy’s face, you think we’re wasting our time.”

“Nuh uh.” Faith shakes her head, pushing off from the wall. “This isn’t about _me._ ” She points an accusatory finger. “This is about _you_ and _your_ shit. You can’t ever let anyone else take the lead, let anyone else take charge or plan an attack. Do you remember how you almost lost your mind when you thought the baby Slayers liked me just a _little bit_ more than they liked you?” Buffy opens her mouth to respond, but Faith doesn’t let her. “ _And_ you keep your plans half to yourself, only tellin’ me enough so that I don’t get pissed that you’re leavin’ me out of things. The _entire_ time we’ve been here, you’ve been steamrollin’ all _over_ me. You decide who we tell our shit to, when we hunt, which guys we go after, which demons we summon, when we attack—”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see _you_ trying to stop me.”

“I _told you_ we were walking into a trap tonight. Did you listen? Hell no.”

“You followed me in there! If you were _so_ convinced it was a trap, you could have stayed behind. Saved your own neck. Then I wouldn’t have had to do it for you.”

Faith rolls her eyes. “Oh _please_! I know that’s not how this works. I’m not stupid, B. That’s _never_ how this has worked.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ve always been _The_ Slayer _,_ Buffy!” Faith shouts, exasperated. “The one and only. It’s always, _always_ been about you. What you’re doin’ and what you’re thinkin’ and how are you going to save the world this time and who’s trying to kill you and blah blah _blah_.”

Faith has been slowly advancing on her this entire time, and now she stands in front of Buffy, towering slightly above her. Buffy looks annoyed at both Faith’s accusing tone and their height difference. “Save it, Faith,” she says, muscling her way past her and back into the dining room. She looks like she’s making her way towards the stairs. “We don’t have time for your ego issues right now, okay?”

“This isn’t about my _ego.”_ Faith stomps after her. “God, you still don’t even see it, do you?” She grabs Buffy by the arm, pulls her around to face her. Buffy yanks her arm away like it’s been burned, but she doesn’t move away. She stays glaring at Faith, her expression clearly saying, _Please, enlighten me; tell me something I don’t know; find a way to blame me for this, too._ The look of her makes Faith’s blood boil. “You know when all this shit started? First fucking day I met you.” She sneers. “I come to Sunnydale, I’m the Slayer, I do my job kicking ass better than anyone. What do I hear about everywhere I go? _Buffy_. So, I slay. I behave. I do the good little girl routine. But who does everybody thank? _Buffy_.”

This time, Buffy growls. Low and angry. A predator who has been cornered. “Are you seriously bringing this up again? This isn’t Sunnydale High. We aren’t _kids_ anymore. Can’t you get _over_ that, already? This is a different _universe._ And you were here. You were right here the entire time, by my side, through _all_ of this. But you never _said anything_ , Faith. In _any_ of our conversations. How am I supposed to listen to you if you don’t speak up?”

Faith’s mouth turns up, half-way between a snarl and a grimace. “It wouldn’t have mattered!” Her nostrils flare out. Buffy isn’t the only predator, here; she isn’t the only deadly thing who has been angered, rankled. “You never let me get a word in edgewise! And even if I _do_ tell you I’m worried about somethin’, you’re always tellin’ me to _trust_ you, tellin’ me you know what you’re doin’, that you know your plan is the good one, the right one. You’re all about control, Buffy.” There’s a sharp intake of breath. Maybe Faith’s struck a nerve, or maybe Buffy is about to scoff at her again. Faith thinks it’s probably more likely the former. “You have no _idea_ what it’s like on the other side, do you? When _nothing’s_ in control. When nothing makes _sense_. There’s just _pain_ , and _hate_ , and nothing you do means _anything_. You can’t even—”

“Shut up.”

“You have no _idea_ what it’s like to feel all that power coursing through you and not being able to—”

“Stop it,” Buffy snaps, her eyes dark and stormy. Her expression is murderous, deadly, but there’s also something flickering behind her eyes. Envy, maybe? Curiosity? It makes sense, if Faith pauses to think about it (which she rarely does). They’ve always been two sides of the same coin, after all. Buffy and Faith, the Good Slayer and the Bad. Each morbidly curious about the life the other leads, each constantly feeling out-done or out-maneuvered by the other. Each wanting what the other has.

Faith laughs, a cruel, quiet thing. “What, my turn on the dark side making you feel _queasy_? You can’t _stand_ hearing about it?”

“I said _stop_ , Faith.” There’s something desperate in Buffy’s expression, something that might be pleading or it might be furious. She doesn’t look away from Faith’s eyes; it’s like she can’t bring herself to turn away.

She ignores the expression as best she can. “Imagine _living it_ , Buffy.” Faith takes a step forward, and Buffy refuses to step back. As Faith stalks towards her, her voice drops. Gone is the shouting rage, replaced instead by a quiet sort of intensity. Her eyes flash, burning bright to contrast her tone. She’s firmly planted herself in Buffy’s space, now, and Faith is more than a little grateful for the few extra inches of height she still has over the other Slayer. “Being in that place, feelin’ what it’s like,” she licks her lips, her eyes boring into Buffy’s, “tasting all that power and that raw anger and acting on only your impulses and the freedom and how _good_ it feels—”

“ _Stop_ ,” Buffy says again, like she’s trying to force a weight to her words when there’s none to be had. It comes out as a whisper, a plea that, if Faith were straining for another interpretation, could almost — _almost_ — be read as meaning its exact opposite.

“I’ve seen it, B. I’ve seen it in you. You’ve got the lust. See, you’ve always needed me to toe the line because you’re afraid you’ll go over it, aren’t you? It tempts you. Because you _know_ it could be you.”

There’s a long pause between them then, a heavy weight to the almost non-existent space still separating their bodies. Buffy is breathing deeply, like she’s trying to slow down her heart rate. Faith feels like her chest is expanding out out out. She can’t seem to pull away.

Finally, she speaks again, her voice is barely loud enough to be heard, even as close as they are. “You’ll never know what it’s like to cross over and then come back,” she whispers. “Imagine that. _Try_ to imagine it. Comin’ down. Waking up from a coma to realize your friends have deserted you, and the only person who ever loved or cared about you turned into a giant _snake demon_ and tried to eat the town before they all blew him up. Imagine comin’ down from that high and realizing _no one_ ever gave a _damn_ about you, no one ever gave a shit… it was just like you always thought. Comin’ down and seekin’ revenge because it’s the only thing you’ve ever _known_ and it’s the only thing you’ve ever been _good at_ and endin’ up beaten and bruised and stabbed through the stomach for your troubles.”

Buffy stares at her, unable to move or blink or even really breathe.

Faith keeps going. She can’t seem to shut herself up, now that she’s finally talking about this. _God_ , she’s wanted to say this for _so_ _long_. “And then you realize.” Her voice has started to crack, to crumble under the weight of her words. Her voice wavers but she keeps speaking. Like a dam that’s sprung a leak, she suddenly can’t keep the swelling tide at bay. “You realize everything you’ve done. And you can’t _sleep_ , anymore. You just lay awake at night and _think_ and _remember._ It starts haunting your dreams, and you start hallucinating and seeing the faces of all the people you’ve hurt and killed and so… so you figure, it’s time to put everything right. You turn yourself in. Go to prison. Let them think they control you, let them keep you in a box you could smash your way out of at any second, if you really wanted to. Let the Good Slayer handle all the world-ending business while you do pull-ups in the yard and dodge shanks in the lunch line just to keep yourself fit, just to keep in shape, just in case she ever—”

But she’s said too much, gone too far. Because she almost just said ‘ _just in case she ever decides she needs you again’_ and it just wouldn’t do to have Buffy know exactly how dependent she is, exactly how whipped she is, exactly how much Faith needs her. Wouldn’t do any good to have Buffy know that Faith’s at her beck and call, that all Buffy ever had to do was say _‘I need your help, Faith_ ’ and she would have dropped anything and everything to come running to try and save her. Like an abused dog, that’s been beaten again and again, but still comes begging at the dinner table for scraps from the people who keep him locked out in the yard all night, in the freezing cold rain. Wouldn’t do to have Buffy know, exactly, where her weaknesses lie.

That wouldn’t do at all.

 _This_ Faith, the one who lives in this world and in this house and in this bed? She got it right. She figured this shit out.

But the one standing here right now? In front of Buffy? Out of breath and a little flushed, smarting from years of mistrust and betrayal and prison and being a wanted felon and a murderer and also, while we’re at it, almost being murdered herself more than a few times?

Faith can’t even believe she’s jealous of a parallel world version of herself that might never come back, can’t believe she’s jealous of an impossible life, a life that isn’t hers to live, to crave, to envy.

She can’t believe it.

But in this world, she got the girl, didn’t she?

Can’t help but be jealous of that.

Buffy is staring at her with this weird expression. Something Faith can’t place. Eyes wide and a little scared and mouth open like she wants to say something but no words are coming out. Like maybe she’s seeing something in Faith for the first time, something she hadn’t seen before and hadn’t expected to see, now. Something that makes her look at Faith with something like _understanding,_ something like _pity,_ and Faith _hates_ pity more than she hates just about anything. It makes her want to throw up, want to hit something, want to… want to kiss that stupid look off of Buffy’s face just to get her to _do something, anything that isn’t this._

And suddenly Faith can’t handle this, anymore. She feels hot under the collar and not in the fun way. Anxious and upset and twitching with energy she desperately needs to burn off. Buffy is staring at her and she isn’t blinking and Faith’s worried that she’s said too much, that she hasn’t said enough, and suddenly she can’t be in this room, in this _house_ , for another second.

Faith turns and heads for the door before she stops, hand on her hip, and whips around again. “You know, I didn’t _ask_ for this,” she whispers into the room. “It’s not exactly how I wanted to spend my weekend. Believe it or not, my life doesn’t _actually_ revolve around making you miserable. I have _actual_ things to do, actual things to spend my time on, and here’s a newsflash for you, Princess: they aren’t _about you_. Not everything is the goddamn Buffy Summers Show.” And if there’s the hint of untruth in her words, well… that’s her business.

Buffy swallows. “So leave,” she says, but it feels rote; it feels like a practiced answer, a response she’s been trained to give, rather than one she actually _wants_ to give. Her voice is quiet, and it isn’t angry; not quite. Faith doesn’t know how to place it. “Nothing’s keeping you here.”

Faith looks at her for a long moment, her face blank and unmoving stone. “Do you _want_ me to leave?”

Buffy swallows again. Her jaw clenches, then her fists. “Yes,” she says. Sounds like she means something else. “That’s _exactly_ what I want.”

Faith scoffs. “Whatever, Buffy.”

The door closes behind her with a loud _slam._

Faith hopes she never has to come back.

 

 

She makes it as far as the front lawn before she realizes she has nowhere to go.

She’s barefoot — too flustered, too hurried, too in a rush to leave that she didn’t bother to pause by the door and slip on a pair of shoes. It doesn’t matter that much, really. Even if she had the world’s sturdiest boots, it’s not like she could walk anywhere with them. Faith stops at the end of the lawn, standing still in her spot with her toes dangling over the line where the grass meets the sidewalk.

She wonders what it would feel like to have the courage to leave. She’s been threatening it for days now, tossing the thought around in her head like some small comfort: _If shit keeps going south, I can just pack my bags and leave. Nothing’s stopping me. Nothing’s keeping me here._

It’s a nice thought, but ultimately futile. Because any time she thinks about leaving — _really_ contemplates it for longer than a few seconds, that is — she remembers. She’s stuck somewhere in a parallel universe sometime in the future; no home, no family, no connections. (Then, when she allows her mind to wander, she remembers: Buffy bleeding on the ground below her; Buffy’s mouth on hers; Buffy’s skin under her fingers; Buffy’s quiet gasps in her ear.)

She can’t leave. She has nowhere to go. (What if Buffy needs her, here? What if she needs her but she’s just too stubborn to admit it? What if Faith really _does_ pack a bag, what if she walks away and never looks back? What would happen to the people (person) she cares about if she’s not there to protect them (her)?)

She feels something tugging on the back of her mind, then. A memory, maybe? But it doesn’t feel like one. Faith is flooded by a moment of intense panic and an itch to run, to _chase,_ but she can’t figure out where it’s coming from, until—

She hears the front door open from somewhere behind her. She thinks she must be imagining it, but she could almost _swear_ she can hear the relieved puff of air Buffy exhales, too. Relieved to find her still on the grass, with her toes brushing against the cement of the sidewalk. She can’t know what Faith is thinking, can’t know the way she longs to just… keep walking. She can’t possibly understand how Faith feels, standing here effectively trapped on this front lawn.

Faith’s always been a bit of a drifter, a bit of a transient. The longest she ever spent in any one location was the three-odd years she was locked up. She doesn’t like the idea of roots, of a fixed home, of domesticity. She doesn’t like the fact that somehow, over the course of a few short days in a parallel dimension, she’s ended up rooted in place on grass that doesn’t belong to her, with a ring on her finger that weighs heavy with the responsibilities it represents. She doesn’t like the fact that she hasn’t been able to take the ring off this entire time, nor the fact that she can’t even come up with a good excuse for that in her own mind. She doesn’t like the fact that she can even now feel Buffy’s presence behind her like a magnetic field, pulling her back back back.

(But Buffy is relieved to see her. And that’s a pretty okay feeling, as far as these things go.)

While Faith has been lost in thought, Buffy has taken the opportunity to make her way across the lawn. She stops next to Faith, almost close enough to touch but not quite. They stare out onto the street together, looking at streetlights maybe, or the neighbor’s new car, or the family in the house across the street who have left their window open while they watch some kid’s movie on the big TV in their front room.

It’s a long while before one of them speaks. Faith doesn’t mind the silence. She thinks she may even prefer it. Buffy drives her absolutely crazy, and sometimes that’s good and sometimes that’s bad. But Faith is always sure, 100% of the time, without fail, that if she opens her mouth around Buffy she’s going to say _something_ wrong. They’ll fight, they’ll trade insults, Faith will admit some long-held, lingering childhood trauma, some latent feelings she’d rather swallow her own tongue than dredge up… but she always manages to say them. No matter what her intentions.

So. Silence is good. Silence is easy. They don’t fight in the silence. They can’t hurt each other when they aren’t talking.

Buffy’s the first one to break it. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly. A rare admission from her.

Faith sighs. “It’s fine,” she says with a shrug, like she’s unbothered. Maybe she is. Maybe she’s gotten so used to their fights at this point, so inundated with the drama and the barbs and the anger and the aggression that she’s become a master at shrugging it off, wiping it away from her conscious, from her emotions. (In the long-term, anyway. Short-term all bets seem to be off. But she kinda likes the fact that, at the very least, it’s starting to feel like Buffy’s got less and less of a hold over her.)

(Who is she kidding? Buffy’s never had her _more_ tightly wrapped around her finger than she does right now. And she doesn’t even know it.)

(One word and Faith is a goner.)

But Buffy shakes her head. “It’s not fine. I’m sorry I keep picking fights with you.” Buffy takes a tiny, almost imperceptible step inward. Their shoulders brush. “I don’t _actually_ want you to leave,” she admits, her voice still whisper-soft on the wind.

“Well,” Faith says with as much humor as she can muster, “I can’t actually _go_ anywhere. I don’t have any money, and this isn’t our universe, and all my stuff is in your house. So.”

“Our house.”

Faith shoots her a glance out of the corner of her eye. “It’s _our_ house, now?”

“Well…” Buffy’s mouth is scrunched tight together, like she’s trying to force down a smile. “I guess _technically_.”

Faith can’t help but laugh. “If this is you tryna get me to stay, you’re doing a terrible job.”

Buffy reaches across the very limited space between them and hooks their fingers together. She squeezes Faith’s hand tightly, and Faith feels something turn over in her stomach. “I really am sorry,” she says. “I just can’t seem to stop blowing up at you. You drive me up the wall. I find you absolutely infuriating. But I know a lot of these fights are my fault. And I also know we’d be a lot more productive if we didn’t try to kill each other every other day.”

“It’s hard for us not to fight.”

Buffy shakes her head. “I know you didn’t ask for this.” She takes a step to the side. Her arm slides easily around Faith’s waist, and Faith relaxes into the gesture. Her own arm falls across Buffy’s shoulders and they stand like that for a few moments, just holding each other.

It’s quiet and comfortable in a way so few of their interactions are.

“We’re good, B,” Faith says softly, after a few minutes that feel like an eternity. Because Buffy’s right, after all: they’ll get a lot more done if they can just try to cooperate. “You can make it up to me when we get home.”

“You mean the house 20 feet behind us? Wow, long walk; wonder if we’ll make it back okay.”

Faith bites her lip _hard_ to stop herself from chuckling. (She doesn’t _chuckle_ ). “Don’t push it.”

 

 

“Y’know, I feel like we’ve really learned valuable something during this whole experience.”

Buffy rolls her eyes, but it’s maybe more good-natured than Faith is used to. It feels like it, at least: a show of exasperation for the sake of normalcy, rather than necessity. “Why do all of our fights have to end with life lessons?”

Faith grins from her spot on the sofa. Kicks her feet up on the coffee table, and Buffy doesn’t even flinch. Maybe that’s what progress looks like, for them: feet resting on a coffee table and a quiet sort of unstable truce drawn between them. “Consistency?”

“One time… just _one_ time I’d like to face a demon that wasn’t convinced he was the master of the universe. And I don’t mean your run-of-the-mill demons. I mean one of the Big Bads.” Buffy sighs and slumps a little further down in her chair. “Is that too much to ask for? A little low-rate mayhem and robbery?”

“Sounds like a vacation.” Faith’s smile is almost wolfish. “I’m in. Do you wanna let the demons know, or should I?”

Buffy narrows her eyes. “Cute.”

“I’m serious, B. Those sound like some demons I can get along with.”

“Speaking of demons you’re supposed to be getting along with…”

Faith groans and stands from the couch. She moves towards the stairs, drawing herself away from Buffy. “And on that note, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

But Buffy, undeterred, jogs to keep up. She catches Faith on the stairs, a hand on her arm. “Why did you and Angel fight? I thought you two were all… _chummy,_ now. Or did you forget the part where you actually get along?”

“No.” Faith shakes her head and pulls her arm away slowly (she would never say ‘reluctantly’, but, well… gun to her head that’s kind of what she’s doing right now). “We’re not talking about this. It’s late, and I’m going to bed. You can pick my brain for info on your ex some other time.”

“I’m not trying to _pick your brain_. I just wanna know what’s up. Did he say something to you? Something to make you…” Faith just looks at her. Buffy shakes her head. “I just… he’s _Angel,_ y’know? He was kind of the only… the first person to ever really believe in you. I just… I didn’t think I’d ever see you _fight_ with him.”

Faith shakes her head. “That wasn’t Angel. Not the right one, anyway.” When Buffy doesn’t say anything in response, when all she can do is blink in bemusement in Faith’s direction, Faith sighs. “You don’t know what he meant to me, how much I needed him, how much I _relied_ on him when I was in prison. He…” She shakes her head again. “That guy at your house wasn’t Angel. That was just the vamp with a soul that used to be in love with you.”

Buffy frowns. “He’s still got the same heart, the same spirit.”

“But with none of the right memories. I don’t know, B, like… who are we without our experiences? Y’know? Like… the Buffy and Faith that live Here… they aren’t _us_. They’re strangers. They’re people who wear our faces and use our voices but, like… I mean, they aren’t _us_. We… if we don’t have our memories, are we even the same people? Can we _be_ the same people?” And Buffy, it seems, does not have a good response to that. Faith rubs her neck. “Yeah,” she says. “I don’t think so, either.”

 

 

“Did you mean what you said in the cave, earlier?” Faith asks later that night, when they’re lying side-by-side in the bed they’ve been sharing for days, both on their backs, staring unseeing up at the ceiling above them. “That whole, ‘nothing good ever happens to us’ line?”

She feels a shift in bed next to her, like Buffy’s shrugging. “I said a lot of things. Don’t really remember all of them.”

“You sounded pretty sure, to me.”

Buffy sighs. “I don’t know, Faith,” she murmurs quietly. Faith doesn’t turn to look at her, but she can picture Buffy’s expression, that whole brow-knitted-in-concentration type look, her eyes screwed shut, her hands clasped together over her stomach. It’s become apparent in the past few days that Buffy has the strange tendency of sleeping like a corpse in a coffin. Faith wonders where she picked it up from. “Maybe I did mean it. Are you telling me you don’t feel the same way? Because, after six years of this it’s really starting to feel like I’m just… getting _lucky_. Waiting around to die and getting lucky that it hasn’t happened yet. That’s where we’re headed, you know. Slayers don’t get to live to old age. They don’t get to have families, or friends, or fulfilling careers. They can’t even make it to 30.”

Faith huffs and rolls onto her side, so that she’s staring at Buffy’s profile. It’s too dark to pick out any of the specifics of her expression, but Faith’s eyes bore a hole into the side of her head either way. “Alright, yeah,” she says, propping herself up on one elbow. “Yeah, maybe this is it. Maybe this is as good as it gets. Maybe this is the only universe where you’re really happy, where your life is really _good_. But you and I both know that’s bullshit. You were happy, back home.”

Buffy scoffs. “Was I? Was I _really_?” She rolls her neck back, a craning motion like she’s trying to get the tension out of her shoulders. Faith tries not to think about the fact that, only a few days before, she had Buffy in this same bed, naked below her. She tries not to think about it. (It won’t do any good to dwell, anyway. They can manage to share the same space without Faith wanting to tear her clothes off. She isn’t an _animal_ or anything.)

Buffy continues: “My Watcher left, my sister goes back and forth between hating my guts and being completely annoyed with me, my friends don’t trust me, my mom is dead and my dad is who _knows_ where. I have to be a mom to like thirty girls who are definitely gonna get themselves killed, probably because of something I do, and I feel like I can barely function on my own. I _died_ and went to heaven and my friends ripped me out of there because they couldn’t just let me _be_ , because they couldn’t handle—”

Something in Faith’s head _clunks_ down heavily, and it feels like the world stops turning. She sits up straight in bed, clutching the sheets to her chest like she needs to, like if she wasn’t holding something she might just crumble and turn to dust. “You died?” she asks in a whisper. She feels something like _dread,_ something like _terror,_ and she can’t… she can’t think…

Buffy seems to start. She turns slowly toward Faith. There might be a frown on her face, but it’s impossible to tell in the darkness. “You didn’t know?”

“When… when did you _die_?” Faith’s spinning, she’s spiraling and spinning out of control and she doesn’t know how to make it stop. Her head hurts, it’s _pounding_ and it hurts so _much_ and she’s dizzy and everything is confusing and she thinks she might be sick. “What the _fuck_ , Buffy?”

“I… Didn’t you feel it? A year and a half ago, in May?”

“I… I felt…” Faith shakes her head. She can’t move. She’s glued to her seat and she can’t move and it feels like she can’t _breathe_ because… because Buffy _died. Buffy_ _died._ How did she not… how did she not feel it? How did she not _know?_ “I didn’t know that _that’s_ what that was, I didn’t… why didn’t anyone _tell_ me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Faith rips the covers away from herself and stands abruptly, without warning. “You think that’s the kinda thing you’d _tell_ someone about! What… were they just planning on letting the Hellmouth overrun with demons and shit?”

“I think they thought they had things covered.”

“Fucking hell.” In the pause that follows, Faith runs her hands through her hair. Stops with them pressed against her temple. Pressing, pressing, pressing; like there’s any way she could find any sort of comfort from the pressure, right now. “You _died_ , Buffy,” she says, in a voice that is almost a whisper but more of a croak.

Buffy flicks on the lamp on the table next to her. At once, the room is bathed in warm, low light — an atmosphere that belies the storm currently bashing against the walls of Faith’s stomach, her heart, her head. “Happens kind of a lot, with me.”

“Please don’t joke about this.”

Buffy sighs, though Faith can see in her eyes that it isn’t exasperation she’s feeling. Not really. She brings her knees up to her chest, wraps her arms around her legs, and rests her chin on the tops of her knees. She seems resigned, more than anything. “I died, Faith,” she says simply. “It’s what we do. We fight until we can’t fight any more and then we _die_. Simple as that.”

But that’s… that’s not fair. That shouldn’t be… that _shouldn’t be._ It can’t be that simple. It _can’t._ Not when… not when it’s _Buffy_ they’re talking about, here. Buffy, the Golden Girl, the Slayer Who Can’t Be Killed… God, she _died,_ and Faith never even… she might never have known. “Why the hell didn’t anyone _call_ me?” she hisses, looking for… she’s not sure what she’s looking for. Someone to blame, maybe; some way to channel what she’s feeling into anger, because at least, if she’s angry, then she _knows_ what it is she’s feeling. “I coulda… I coulda broken out, or something. I could have _helped_ with… I don’t know, everything. _Anything_ , even.”

Buffy rolls her eyes. “Really not sure how I feel about you making my death all about your own issues.”

“Jesus, Buffy, don’t you _get it_?” Faith snaps at her. “You _died_ while I was just sitting in a cell rotting away! I wasn’t… I wasn’t _there_. I couldn’t _help_. You died and I couldn’t… I couldn’t do anything about it. I couldn’t save you.”

“You would have saved me?”

Faith’s shoulders deflate a little. She swallows thickly and, because she’s feeling more than a little off-balance, because it’s the dead of the night and there’s no one and nothing around to hear her, not even demons, she admits, quietly, almost to herself, “I would have died trying.”

There’s a moment then where they just stare at each other, where the weight of Faith’s words slowly settles down into the space between them.

“Well…” Buffy says after a long pause, shifting where she sits and breaking the silent tension, “that’s brave of you, and all, but it kinda would have cramped my whole self-sacrificing, saving-the-world vibe.”

Faith lets out a breath, something that feels like relief. “Of course that’s how you died. Always have to be the hero. Classic Buffy: can’t do anything unless it’s dramatic and a pain in the ass.”

Buffy grins. “Yeah. You got me there.”

Faith keeps her hands down at her sides, fingers tangled in her own sleep shirt. So Buffy can’t see the way they tremble. It’s getting a little easier to breathe, now that the initial shock has faded; now that she has the evidence of Buffy’s continued life in front of her, in the form of light teasing and quick smiles.

Buffy pats the bed next to her, a clear invitation. Faith makes her way back to the bed slowly and sits down gingerly, like she’s afraid if she moves too quickly or makes too much of an impact when she sits, it’ll throw Buffy off the face of the earth.

Buffy is looking at her carefully now, something unreadable in her expression. “Are you alright?” she asks quietly, and it’s only then that Faith realizes she’s shivering.

She tries to shake herself, tries to get her body back under her control. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she says, though she feels anything but. “Just… it’s a lot to process.”

Buffy reaches a hand out, hesitantly, slowly enough that Faith can see it coming from a mile away, could move or shift out of its path if she wanted to. She stays still. Buffy’s hand comes to rest on her shoulder, and it’s something that Faith should think is condescending and overly-emotional, but she lets it calm her, lets it relax her muscles and her bones. _Buffy’s here_ , she thinks. _Buffy’s here and alive and I can feel her, I can feel her next to me and I can feel her hand on my shoulder and I can feel the pull of her in the back of my mind. I can hear the way she breathes, the way her hair moves against her face, and if I put my head on her chest I would be able to hear her heartbeat, too._

It’s not perfect, not really. But it helps.

They stay like that for a few more moments as Faith wrestles with her breathing, with her pounding pulse. When she feels effectively placated, she straightens her spine a little. Buffy’s hand doesn’t move from her shoulder. She doesn’t quite know how to feel about that. “I think you’re wrong, for the record,” she says, and Buffy seems to relax a little, seems to soften with the familiarity of the words.

“Oh good,” she says. “Something different from you, for a change.”

Faith ignores her. “I think you’re wrong about you. About us. Okay, so maybe a Slayer’s never lived to 30. Maybe they’ve never had the chance to have families, or to get real wrinkly with the grey hair and huge glasses. But you know what else? There’s never been more than one Slayer before, either. And if we’re putting money down, I gotta tell you I like those odds.”

“Well,” Buffy says with a laugh, burrowing further under the covers, making like she’s about to go back to sleep, “we’ve already established I have trouble staying dead.”

Faith grins, a wide, roguish thing. She can almost forget, if she lets herself, that only a minute or so ago it felt like her entire world had tipped the wrong way up. Can almost forget that she apparently almost lost Buffy once, and is slowly coming to realize that she’d rather die than risk that happening again. “There’s my girl.”

Buffy rolls her eyes, but Faith can see the way her cheeks flush, her ears pulling back a little in embarrassment. She turns away, rolls onto her side as her fingers fumble for the string to turn off the lamp. She keeps her head angled purposefully away from Faith, her eyes and mouth hidden by a curtain of hair.

Faith knows she’s smiling.

It warms her from the inside out. (She can’t help it. Buffy’s here, Buffy’s _alive_ and she’s moving and she’s breathing and she’s smiling and, _God,_ Faith didn’t even know this was something she could _lose,_ but now that she knows it’s a possibility, she wants to cling to her, to grasp onto these moments with a vice-like grip and never let them go. Because she almost lost Buffy once; she’s not about to do it again.)

Buffy clears her throat and the light goes off. Faith feels their conversation drawing to a close. She doesn’t want it to end, wants to keep Buffy awake, keep Buffy in her line of sight, watch the movement of her chest as she breathes to make sure that she keeps doing it. But, that’s weird, that’s not something she’s supposed to do, not something she’s supposed to _want_ to do. (Not something _Buffy_ would want her to do, either. One ill-advised nighttime romp aside, Buffy’s never exactly indicated that she’s super into Faith’s near-obsession with her).

“Come on,” Buffy says as she flops back down on her pillow. “We need to go to sleep so that tomorrow we can regroup. Get some better weapons, chart a plan of attack…”

“You’re trying to go back again tomorrow?” Faith asks, genuinely surprised. For all of Buffy’s tendencies towards a little bit of recklessness (she’s never given up on a fight in the four years Faith’s known her), she’s also not _dumb_. She knows when she’s outnumbered, when she’s lost her advantage. And after their last encounter with Demon McDemon Face, Faith thinks she’d want maybe… well, more than _12 hours_ to rethink what she’s doing, probably.

“I’m trying to go back as soon as possible.”

Buffy’s not usually one for suicide missions, so her determination to stomp back into an unknowable hostile situation with no backup, no tricks up her sleeve… it’s a little worrying. “Is that smart?” Faith asks, settling herself gingerly back under the covers. She keeps a comfortable, respectful distance between them; nothing that could be misconstrued as untoward, as too forward.

“This demon may be psychic,” Buffy says into the dark room, “and he may have swords for hands and he may be able to read minds, but he made a mistake. He showed us where he lives, where he keeps his base of operations. He’s so convinced he can beat us, manipulate us, that he led us right into the belly of the beast. He made a mistake.”

The realization hits Faith only a few seconds later. She stares at Buffy, wide-eyed, awed, and a little disbelieving. “You actually know where the talisman is?”

Buffy nods and grins. “I know where the talisman is.”

____________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry x a million (again) that this was so late. I promise I'm trying to be better about updates.
> 
> As always, feel free to follow me on [ tumblr ](https://morningsound15.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Please don’t die on me,” Buffy whispers into Faith’s neck. “Okay?”
> 
> And it’s stupid. It’s foolish of her, really, because what can she really promise? Faith has no more control over her own death than she does over the changing of the seasons. She’s gonna die someday, and it might be tomorrow or it might be ten years from now, but really, in her line of work, tomorrow seems _much_ more likely. So it’s crazy of Buffy to ask that of her. Worse still, it would be crazy of her to say something dumb like _I’ll never leave you_ or _I promise I won’t die before you_ because who is she kidding, pretending to have control over a thing like that?
> 
> But Faith, like an idiot, promises anyway. “I won’t die on you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is ACTUALLY the last chapter. Sorry it was such a long time coming.
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking with me until the end. And I hope you’ll read the second part of the series when that comes out, too.

____________________

They wake up to a flashing red light on their answering machine. Strange that they hadn’t noticed it before, because when Faith looks down at the little screen it shows a bright red, unmistakable “6” plain as day. They have to be messages stored up from several days back, but Faith hadn’t noticed them before now. She supposes that they had never felt the _need_ to check them before.

(Faith’s not sure that they _need_ to check them now, either. But Buffy keeps mumbling something about Dawn and Giles, something about “our responsibility” and “know they’re safe” and “obligations” and Faith’s not sure entirely what that means, or where she’s coming from with all this, or what she’s using to justify her decision to listen to recordings that are _clearly_ not meant for them. Doesn’t stop Buffy, of course.)

Buffy sighs before she hits ‘PLAY’.

_“Miss Summers, it is unfortunately my duty to inform you that your failure to show up for work for the past two days is undoubtedly going to have a serious detrimental effect on your future here. This is your final warning: failure to report to work for a third day in a row may result in your immediate termin—”_ Buffy skips to the next message.

_“Buffy, hey. It’s Joan. From work. Listen… we’re all really worried about you. And Mr. Druthers is on the warpath. He says if you don’t have a really good excuse for missing the past few days, he’s going to—”_

_“Hey Buffy, it’s Willow. Haven’t heard from you in a while. Dawn says you’re alright, but call me back so I can—”_

_“Hi, this is Sarah Jane, calling for Faith. We just wanted to check-in, because we haven’t heard from you in a few days and everyone at the office is starting to worry. Hope everything’s okay! Call back when you can, let us know if you need—”_ She skips again.

Faith can’t help her wince. “They’re gonna be in some serious shit when they get back, aren’t they?”

Buffy shrugs. “Probably. Can’t do anything about it, now, though.”

“Still. You don’t feel a little bad?” Buffy doesn’t answer her.

Another _beep_ from the machine, and then they hear Dawn’s voice: _“Wow, no missed calls? No frantic texts? I know that must be because of Faith. **Thank you, Faith!** So anyway, I’m staying at school again tonight with some friends, Jamie and Claire. I’ll have my phone so if you need to you can always—”_

“Are we bad parents because we didn’t check on the kid?”

“First of all, we aren’t _parents_. And… no; she’s an adult. It isn’t our job to monitor her every move.”

Faith can’t help but snort. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Who are you and what have you done with Buffy Summers?”

Buffy waves her away.

_“Buffy, Faith,”_ Giles’ voice calls up from the answer machine, drawing both of their attention, _“I’ve… I’ve discovered something interesting about your… little problem… that I think you should hear. If you’re both… still **here** , that is. Yes, well… call me back, please. It may prove to be significant. Hope you… hope you’re well. Er… call me back. Bye.”_

The answering machine _beeps_ one final time. _End of messages,_ it chimes in its robotic voice, as Buffy and Faith look down at it, neither moving from her spot.

“You gonna call him back?” Faith finally asks into the silence.

Buffy shakes her head. “No use. We already know everything we need to.”

“I don’t know, B. Could be important. Maybe he figured some new way to kill this guy, or something?”

“If it was something _that_ important, he would have said so in his message. No, this is classic Giles. He spends a few days with his nose buried in his books and wants to tell me everything he learned. I never need half the stuff he comes up with; he just likes to feel useful.”

“Isn’t that… a little harsh? He might—”

“If you wanna go to his house and hear his spiel,” Buffy snaps, “be my guest. I won’t stop you. But I’m going to Willow and Tara’s.”

Faith frowns. “ _Why_?”

“Why else? They’re witches. And we need a spell.”

____________________

“He has it behind some sort of glamour,” Buffy says as they pick their way slowly through the graveyard, a shortcut to get to Willow and Tara’s shared apartment above the magic shop. (Buffy found their address scribbled in some address book — who _are they_ in this universe, 80 year-old grandmothers? — and it’s lucky that she did, because calling up Willow and Tara and having to ask them for directions to their house would have been incredibly difficult to explain.) “A spell concealing a hidden door, maybe. I could see the edges of the magic when we were in the cave.”

“How’d you manage that?” Leaves crunch underfoot, and Faith tries not to shiver. Wouldn’t look very good for her street cred if Buffy caught her _shivering_ in a _graveyard_ in the middle of the day. How embarrassing would _that_ be? She’s not a kid seeking thrills on Halloween — she’s a grown ass woman who spends her free time killing the things people make monster movies about. She doesn’t _get_ scared.

There’s a tension to the muscles in Buffy’s shoulders that lets Faith know she’s not super keen on this line of questioning. It only makes her want to question further, but she bites her lip to stop from poking at an open wound. “Something happened last year with Willow and Dawn,” Buffy finally says, and it isn’t exactly _descriptive_ but it sure as hell is better than nothing. “I… learned how to pick out a cloaking spell.”

“Useful skill.”

“I thought so, yeah.”

“So, now you know where his talisman is. And _he_ knows _you_ know where it is. Isn’t that bad?”

“He probably thinks I was just bluffing. To keep you alive.”

Faith pulls a face. “But then why would he go along with it? If he thought you were bluffing, why wouldn’t he just kill us both?” She pauses and considers for a moment. “Also, can he not read our minds? Wouldn’t he _know_ if you knew about the talisman?”

Buffy shrugs as they finally emerge out onto the street. She kicks her heels against the curb behind her, as if she’s trying to shake off the dust of staked vamps and graveyard dirt that’s collected in the treads of her shoes. “I was singing Britney pretty loudly in my head the whole time we were in there. I don’t think he could hear much over that.” Faith has to snort. Of _course_ she was. “And besides,” Buffy continues, “ _this_ universe only works if we’re both in it. That’s what Giles said. So… he probably was never _really_ going to kill you. Not unless he needed to. And as far as he’s concerned, we’re more useful to him alive. He can’t enjoy feeding on our energy if we’re dead.”

“Lucky us.”

“In this case, it probably is.” Buffy pauses then, her feet poised against the concrete. They can see the door to the magic shop, only a few hundred yards ahead of them, but they don’t move towards it just yet. “I should probably also tell you right now that I _don’t_ actually know where the talisman is,” Buffy admits after a long break. She clears her throat as Faith gapes at her. “Not exactly.”

“You _what?_ ”

“I could feel the magic in the cave, but it… it was weird. Like the harder I tried to look for it, the further away the spell went.”

“So… you lied to me last night? You’re tellin’ me you _don’t_ know where it is.”

Buffy winces. “Not-not _quite_. But I know how to find it.”

“Witches?” Faith sighs, already resigned to the answer.

Buffy nods. “Witches.”

 

 

Tara opens the door after only two knocks. She looks surprised to see them, but not overly so, which is at least a little comforting. “Buffy, Faith!” she exclaims, her fingers nervously drumming on the wood of the door she’s still holding. “This— w-what are you doing here? Why aren’t you at work?”

“Tara, hi,” Buffy says brightly. “We need a spell. Some kind of dampener, something to block a telepathic demon from being able to read our minds.”

Tara balks. “Wh-spell?” She shakes her head very quickly. “A sp… what are you talking about? I don’t… I don’t know how to…”

“Tara, it’s okay,” Buffy says very calmly, cutting off her stammering. “I know you know magic.”

Tara gulps. “How?”

Buffy and Faith exchange a look. “It’s a really, _really_ long story,” Buffy finally says. “And I’m not sure you’d believe me if I told you.”

Tara looks between them, the anxiety melting into curiosity. Her eyes skim their bodies, from their faces down to their toes. Faith shifts where she stands, feeling uncomfortably like she’s being x-rayed. “You’re not from this universe,” Tara says after a long moment, and Buffy and Faith both go still.

“We…” Buffy flounders for words for a few moments, shock radiating off of her, “yeah. That’s, um… yeah. You got it. How did you _know_ that?”

Tara stands to the side and gestures for them to step inside. They do, though they’re a little more hesitant now than before. Tara shuts the door firmly behind them before she starts in on her explanation. “I sensed something in your auras, the night we had dinner together,” she says, making her way through the apartment to an unfamiliar sitting room. Buffy sinks gratefully onto the couch but Faith doesn’t follow her lead. She stands near the doorway, arms crossed over her chest, tense and watching from a safer distance. This conversation doesn’t concern her — she can already tell as much. “I didn’t know w-what it was at first,” Tara continues. “It was like your souls were fragmented. Something forced in where they didn’t belong. So I did some d-digging. A few spells and readings and I figured it out.”

Buffy lets out a small little breath. “So that means you’ve known for—?”

“A few days.”

“Why didn’t you _say_ anything? If you knew we didn’t belong here, why wouldn’t you… I don’t know, confront us about it? Lock us away in some magic prison, or something?” Faith shivers at the mention of prison. Neither woman sees the shudder trace its way up her spine.

“I didn’t know why you were here. I was worried if you knew _I_ knew, you might… you might have been dangerous. I c-couldn’t risk it. With Dawn and with… a-and Willow, she doesn’t know you’re both Sl-Slayers. I wanted to keep her o-out of it.”

“But _you_ know?”

“I’m more in-tune with the demon world than Willow is. She doesn’t do anything more than housekeeping spells and a few small conjurings.”

Faith has to frown. From what she knows about Big Red and all her semi-world-killing ways, that doesn’t really _sound_ like her. Man, this universe is _weird._ She can’t wait to be rid of it. (It’s easier to think that _that’s_ the truth than the alternative.)

“Can you help us, then? We’re just trying to get home. All goes well, we should be out of your hair by tomorrow morning.”

“And if all doesn’t go well?”

Buffy and Faith exchange another look. Buffy shrugs. “Maybe the end of the world?”

Tara shakes her head. “Sounds like you really _do_ need my help.”

 

 

The cloaking spell is an easy one for Tara to do. Faith is thankful for that much, at least, because it means they can get out of here a hell of a lot faster. The apartment, she means; not this universe. (Though that’s true, too.) She doesn’t like this apartment, doesn’t like the way it smells or the way it feels, doesn’t like the pictures hanging on the walls or the books spilling off of shelves pressed back against far walls. She flicks through a few of the books anyway, even though she doesn’t like their very existence just on principle (she’s never particularly loved books).

“Yo, T?” she calls out, her fingers pausing on one title in particular. “Mind if I borrow this?”

“Will you be around l-long enough to give it back?”

“Probably not,” Faith says with a shrug, “but you know where I live, don’t ya?”

Tara sighs. “Try not to bend the pages this time?”

“I’ll do my best.” Tara waves her away, already turning back to the instructions she’s been perusing with Buffy, their conversation muffled and quiet.

Faith sits down on an empty armchair on the other side of the room, kicks her feet up on the table in front of her, and starts to read.

 

 

Twenty minutes later, and Tara announces she’s finished.

“That should do it,” she says, lighting a bundle of herbs and waving the smoke around Buffy and Faith’s respective heads. Faith’s eyes water, and she tries not to cough. “That dampener should last a few hours; midnight, at least.”

“Very _Disney_ of you,” Faith grumbles.

Buffy smacks her on the shoulder. Faith doesn’t even wince at the feeling. “Ignore her. Thank you, Tara. For everything.”

“Just be careful. The dampener works two-fold: it’ll m-mask your thoughts from telepathic beings, but it will also dampen your Slayer senses. You won’t have your regular p-p-powers of perception. You may not be able to feel each other as strongly.”

_Well,_ Faith thinks, _at least **one** good thing is coming from this._

“We’ll keep that in mind, Tara. Thanks again. You’ve been a big help. And… well, hopefully _we_ won’t see you again. But, when we go… I think you should tell the Other Us. The Buffy and Faith who belong here. You should tell them what you and Willow can do. Two Slayers on their own are a powerful force; but two Slayers with two powerful witches? Imagine all the good the four of you could do.”

Tara smiles, a little hesitantly. “Do you r-really think so? That we could w-work together?”

Buffy smiles softly. “I have a pretty good feeling.”

“W-what if Buffy is angry? That’s… that’s what W-Willow is afraid of. That you’ll… that _She’ll_ be mad w-we’ve kept this from her.”

“She’s been keeping her own secrets, hasn’t She?”

“I s-suppose.”

“You guys are Her best friends in the entire world, Tara. I think you deserve to have each other. You deserve to know each other. Just… think about it. Please?”

“I will.”

They turn and part ways. Faith sees Buffy, out of the corner of her eye, wipe a few errant tears away.

She stares straight ahead and pretends not to notice the way Buffy’s shoulders shake with silent sobs.

They don’t speak the entire way home.

 

 

Buffy toes her shoes off by the front door. Her sock-clad feet make almost no sound as they pad across the hardwood floors and towards one of their weapons stashes. She unfolds a black duffle bag from within the depths of the trunk and hits it against her leg a few times to open it further. Faith glances at the clock on the wall. 2:00 p.m. Still a while until nightfall. Not that they need to wait for nightfall — they both agreed that the sooner they can get everything ready the better. Tara’s given them cover for a good few hours, but they don’t want to risk cutting it too close. Besides, demons don’t tend to like the daytime hours as much as the dark; anything they can do to put this guy off-balance, and to limit their chances of running into other unforeseen dangers, they’re gonna do.

Faith kneels down next to where Buffy is rummaging through one of their deeper chests. She puts the book down on the ground between them and takes the weapons Buffy hands her, packing them tightly one after the other into the bottom of the bag.

They work like that, silently, for a couple minutes. But when the bag is mostly-full, Buffy glances down at the book still lying between them, unopened (almost like a taunt), and asks, with as even a voice as Faith thinks she’s able to muster, “Why did you borrow that book, anyway? You don’t like to read.”

“You don’t know what I like.”

Buffy rolls her eyes. “I know you don’t like to _read._ ” Faith picks the book up and holds it high enough for Buffy to read the title. She squints (she isn’t wearing her glasses; the little scrunched-up expression her face adopts is _not_ adorable in the slightest) and scoots forward on the floor. Their knees knock together. Faith’s heart does a little stutter-jump in her chest. Buffy doesn’t move away from her, even after she’s done reading. “ _Ancient Demons from the Dawn of Civilization: From Neanderthal to Christ_?” She pulls a face. “Geez, you think they could shorten up their titles a bit?”

“Yeah, well… you know what academics are like.”

There’s that face again, that scrunched-up-nose and furrowed-brow confusion. Like Faith’s just told her a particularly distasteful joke. Like she’s only just seeing Faith for the first time. “How do _you_ know what academics are like?”

“You think just ‘cause I didn’t go to college I don’t know shit?” Faith scoffs and clambers to her feet. Her knees feel a little sore, even just from the short amount of time they were on the ground together. God, she’s getting old. “When am I gonna stop surprising you, B?”

“No, I just meant…” Buffy lets out a huff of air, exasperated, and sits back on her heels. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why’d you borrow that book?”

“Why d’you think? Get info on our little demon problem.”

“And it…” Buffy eyes the book warily, “there’s information in there?”

Faith hums and plops herself onto the empty chair nearest to Buffy. She flips through the book idly, not really bothering to skim its pages — she’s already read the most important bits. “I really think we shoulda called Willow and Tara at the beginning of all this,” she says, eyes still lazily scanning the pages in front of her. “They seem to really know their shit. Although I’m not sure how they manage to explain to houseguests about their books on demons and witchcraft and magic and shit. And forget Tara for a second — we’re supposed to believe Willow _really_ doesn’t know we’re Slayers? She runs a _magic shop;_ how thick could she _be_?”

“Maybe it’s because we’re all so busy lying to each other,” Buffy says, zipping the bag shut tight. “Can’t see what’s right in front of our noses.”

Faith scrunches her nose. “For a group of best friends you all _really_ need to work on your communication skills.”

“No more five-dollar therapy sessions from you, please.” Buffy climbs to her feet too, now. Crosses her arms over her chest. “Tell me what’s so important about that book that you had to take it with us.”

“Well, thanks for asking, and I’m so glad I can _finally_ be useful.” Faith clears her throat and opens the book to the important section, the part she’d marked earlier at Willow and Tara’s apartment (so sue her, she likes to dog-ear her pages; y’can’t blame a girl for marking her place in a book, ‘specially when it has to do with a _life-or-death_ type situation). “Got a lot of good demon-y info from this guy. You’re _welcome,_ by the way, for being productive. Like… here,” she points at something Buffy can’t see, “it says here that the Vocare use fire to protect themselves. ‘ _They form a ring of fire around themselves at nearly all times. Disrupt this ring, and disrupt the magic they use to tether themselves to this dimension.’”_

“We’ve never seen any fire, before.” Buffy crosses over to her, peering her head over Faith’s shoulder to read the corresponding page herself.

“No I… I think I saw something. Maybe. When we were in the cave. I don’t know, though; I’d need a second look.”

Buffy still looks a little skeptical. “How reliable is that book?”

“Seems very. Look,” she flips to the inside front cover and points to a dark symbol inked there, “it’s even got that whole ‘Seal of the Watchers’ thing Giles is always creamin’ his pants over.”

“Gross, Faith.”

“I’m just sayin’. Reliable.”

Buffy sighs. “Alright, fine. Does it tell you how to kill them, at least?”

Faith grimaces. “Unfortunately, no. _‘There are very few Earthly objects capable of killing a Vocare demon. Disrupting their magic will buy you a few minutes of time, but unless accompanied by a powerful warlock or a Peruvian Night Crystal, hope of escape is minimal. If you encounter a Vocare demon: do not engage; do not antagonize; run away as fast as you can.’_ ”

It’s silent between them for a few moments. “Well…” Buffy finally says, “that’s cheery.”

Faith hums and shuts the book with a ringing sort of finality. “Bottom line is: I don’t think we can kill it.”

“Okay, we can’t kill it. Did we need a whole new book to tell us that?”

“Seemed like a pretty important bit of information, to me.”

“We don’t need to kill it for the plan to work. But I guess you’re right; it’s good to know we can’t. Better we don’t waste our time trying.”

“Sorry, back up a sec… you’ve got a plan, now?”

“Yup.”

“A plan that doesn’t involve killing it?”

“No killing necessary.”

That’s a new one, for her. For both of them, really. But still, Faith doesn’t quite understand. They’ve always been the sort of _take-no-prisoners_ Slayers, the Slayers who take the things and beings that have done them harm and do that harm back on them, tenfold. She’s always appreciated that about Buffy — it’s always been one of the few things they have in common. Buffy may be a little more _buddy-buddy_ with some of the creatures-of-the-demon-variety (at least _Faith_ has never screwed a vamp), but at least they both can agree on the fact that, 99 times out of 100, the best demon is a dead demon. “So, we… what exactly do we do? Go in, distract him, break his magic ring thingy, and then smash the talisman in the few minutes we have before he comes back from wherever we sent him and he guts us?”

Buffy shrugs. “Basically.”

Faith groans. “This is a terrible plan.”

“I think it’ll work.”

“You _always_ think your plans are gonna work. What about last time? Do you not remember? Cave, taunting, me getting strung up by the neck?”

“This is different. I didn’t have a good enough plan last time. This time I do.”

“It’s stupid.”

“It’s reckless, not stupid,” Buffy wags a finger. “There’s a difference. And besides, I thought you were a fan of reckless, Faith. Are you losing your edge, or something? What happened to your wild side?”

“My wild side is perfectly _fine_ , thanks. In fact, it’s pretty happy remaining _in_ my body.”

“You and your wild side aren’t going anywhere. As long as we smash the talisman, it shouldn’t matter what physical state we’re in. We should get transplanted right back into our own bodies, only a minute or two after we left, with nothing significantly changed.”

Faith frowns, leafing through the book’s pages as quickly as she can. “How did you find out about _that?_ That’s not in the book.”

“No, that’s in… it’s from one of the old Watcher diaries. From decades ago. His Slayer faced a Vocare, too.”

Faith didn’t know Buffy read the Watcher diaries. She vaguely remembers them from when they were in high school — Wesley with his stuffy suits and button-up shirts used to constantly tell her that she needed to read them, to _‘learn about her history’_ or something else equally as cheesy — but she’s never gone digging through them. She didn’t know Buffy had read them. “What happened to her?” Faith asks. “Did she kill it?”

“No, she was…” Buffy shakes her head. “Apparently she was gone for weeks. By the time she managed to find her way back, she was never really the same. Her Watcher suspected that she spent _years_ in her alternate-dimension. She never spoke about it again, so they never figured out what she went through. He assumed some kind of horrific torture, the kind to leave you a little wonky in the head. But now, after _this_ … I don’t know. I’m not so sure that’s what happened to her.” Buffy stops talking, a far-off look in her eye, like she’s trying to remember something that happened lifetimes ago. It’s quiet for a few moments before she seems to come back to herself. She shakes her head again, clearing her thoughts. “She killed herself a few weeks later. Couldn’t figure out what was real and what was imagined, anymore. This thing… it drove her crazy.”

Faith swallows thickly. “Do you think… I mean, is that what’s gonna happen to us?”

Buffy chews on her lower lip. She doesn’t look worried, not exactly, but she doesn’t look at ease, either. “I don’t know.”

“I mean,” Faith is starting to feel a little panicky, as a million thoughts start occurring to her at once. She’s never been very picky about her own death, as far as these things go, but it’s only really just dawning on her that there might actually be serious consequences resulting form their actions in this Other Place. “What happens when we leave?” she asks quickly. “Once we figure this whole thing out and we go home — if we can get there, obviously — what… what happens to everyone Here? What about this Buffy and this Faith? Are they gonna come back? Will time restart? Will they remember what we’ve done?” And then, with a touch more horror as the thought occurs to her: “Are they gone _forever_?”

“How could I possibly know that?”

“Well shit, B, I don’t know. I was just spitballin’.” Faith shakes her head. “I mean, we haven’t really talked about it, y’know? We’ve just been so focused on finding this demon and gettin’ home and all, we never… are we gonna go _crazy_? Are we… you said it didn’t matter if we died, Here, because as long as we break the talisman we get to go home. But what about the people who live Here? If I… If I die, will She die, too?”

There’s a veil pulled down over Buffy’s eyes. Something dark, something like steel in her gaze. Her eyes are set, her mouth firm, her jaw locked. She shakes her head. “We can’t worry about that, now.”

Faith stares at her, eyes wide and disbelieving. “Are you for real?” She stands slowly, moving a few paces away. She can’t think properly when they’re so close, can’t get the feeling or the smell or the thought of _Buffy_ out of her head, and she _really_ needs to be thinking straight, right about now. “How can we not _worry_ about this? These are people’s _lives,_ Buffy. They got friends and jobs and a brat they gotta raise. We can’t… what if doing this messes everything up, for them?”

Buffy shakes her head vehemently as she returns to the bag of weapons. “We can’t worry about that,” she says, bending down and rifling through its contents like she’s actually searching for something. She isn’t; she’s stalling, using whatever tactics she can so she doesn’t have to look Faith in the eye. It’s unsettling. It makes Faith’s blood run hot (and not in the good, fun way). “There’s no telling that this universe is even _real_ — it could all just be something the demon created. If we start worrying about the lives of people who may not even exist, then all we’re doing is trapping ourselves here.”

Faith can’t stop staring at Buffy’s back, the hunch of her shoulders, the way they’re pulled up to her ears, like she’s trying to disappear in on herself, tuck herself into the smallest ball she can like she’s fending off a bear attack. And Faith feels… _horrified_ isn’t the right word (she doesn’t _get_ horrified, not anymore), but she… it’s something like _fear,_ something like _anger,_ something like _betrayal._ A strange mix of emotions, considering Buffy hasn’t actually betrayed her at all. It’s not like she’s got a knife sticking out of her gut this time.

Still. She can’t shake the feeling. “I thought you were supposed to be the Good Slayer,” she says, with maybe less venom behind her words than she originally intended (she refuses to acknowledge that she sounds more than a little _hurt_ ). “The one who worries about the every-man, the innocent bystanders, the collateral damage. Don’t tell me you’re just going to _ignore_ all of that just to—”

Buffy rounds on her, her expression dark and murderous. “There are people who _need_ me back home. Dawn, and Willow, and Xander, and all of the Potentials. Did you forget we’re fighting some big First Evil that’s trying to destroy the world?” And Faith has no answer to that. “What are we supposed to _do_ , Faith?” Buffy asks, quieter. Sadder. “Stay here and hope that everything turns out alright?”

Faith doesn’t have a good answer for that, either. She settles on: “You’re dooming one world to save another.”

“No,” Buffy responds, adamant. “I’m _saving_ our world. That’s it. That’s all we know for sure. We can’t speculate beyond that.”

“Look at you,” Faith says, gesturing wildly with her arms, still struggling to understand how Buffy could be this… _cavalier_ with people’s _lives._ “When did you turn into this person? When did you become the kinda gal who didn’t like to _speculate_? That’s who you _are,_ B. You’re the girl who actually _gives_ a shit about the world beyond the supernatural.”

“I give a shit about _all_ of it,” Buffy snaps. There’s an edge to her words, a twinge that Faith feels all the way down to her toes. Her connection with Buffy means that she’s more in-tune to a lot of things about her, and though it’s subdued now because of Tara’s spell, it’s only really like the volume’s been turned down. Like… if she takes the time to focus, she can still pick it out — that thrum of something that isn’t _quite_ her, that rippling of energy between them that makes the hairs on the back of Faith’s neck stand up. She can pick it out if she really tries. And right now Buffy’s words have a sadness to them that Faith can feel but can’t really understand.

She lets her mind reach out, poke at the edges of Buffy’s consciousness, but the wall of grief that greets her is so sudden, so crippling even with the dampener, that Faith’s knees almost give out. She looks at Buffy as she scrambles for purchase, trying to catch her breath. Buffy looks back at her, her expression closed-off but her emotions burning out, the strength of them roaring over her. It takes every ounce of strength she has to slam the wall back down between them. Faith retreats back into her own mind and the fog returns, and then she’s once again blissfully alone.

“It’s us or them, Faith,” Buffy says to her, nothing in either her words or her tone giving a hint as to the utter turmoil inside her own mind that Faith just brushed the edges of. “And we aren’t in a position where we can let it be them.”

“Well…” Faith says, still reeling a little where she stands. Getting hit with that amount of pure, unadulterated _Buffy_ is a little discomforting. “Well, what about us?”

“What _about_ us?”

Faith takes a breath. As long as they’re airing all their grievances now, she might as well say her piece. When is she going to have another chance? They might die in a few hours.

What does she have to lose, really?

“What happens when we go back?”

Buffy shakes her head. She hasn’t understood the question. Not really. “Nothing. We go back to normal, train the kids, kill the evil… we go back to normal.”

“Normal.” There’s that word again. Doesn’t matter how many times she hears it, how many times they repeat it — it still feels like a punch to the gut. “Right.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? We agreed—”

Faith scoffs. “Like we were ever _normal_ , Buffy.”

Buffy’s jaw clenches, and Faith thinks that maybe she had understood the question, all along. She folds her arms over her chest and focuses her attention on a spot directly over Faith’s left shoulder. “I don’t know what you want from me. I don’t know what you _think_ this all means, but it isn’t—”

“Jesus, Buffy, I’m not asking for you to _marry_ me or anything.” Buffy’s nostrils flair. Faith tries not to let it offend her. She inhales as the moment stretches between them, as she weighs her next words. “I just… want you to be honest about what you want.” Buffy deflates. “That’s all. Jus’… be honest with me.”

Buffy sighs. “I…” she starts quietly. Stutters and stops. She clears her throat and tries again: “I-I _know_. And I… I’m _trying_ , okay? I’m really trying.”

“I’m not asking for much.” Faith is very conscious of her hands, folded in front of her lap. Very conscious of the way they itch, the way they almost want to reach out to touch Buffy; to confirm that Buffy’s still in front of her, that they’re actually talking about this. To comfort, maybe; to console; to anchor Buffy here, maybe, so she can’t ignore this _thing_ between them any longer.

She keeps them folded together and doesn’t move them.

“You’re sort of asking for a lot.”

A soft exhale, just a puff of air to break the tension in Faith’s throat. “I don’t expect you to be head over heels in love or anythin’, B. I just want to talk about what happened. I just want you to be straight with me.” She pauses as she seems to hear her own words. Faith pulls a face and shakes her head. “Well, I mean… technically I don’t _literally_ want you to be straight with me. It’s just an expression.”

Buffy snorts, like she can’t help it. “Weirdly I think I picked up on that, yeah.”

Faith smiles, because it feels like that’s allowed, again. “Well… that’s all I want. Honesty. You know I’m crazy about you,” she admits, and then, a little more reluctantly, “you know I’d do just about anything for you. And… well I’m not asking for that back. I just wanna know if I’ve been imagining everything these past few days. I mean, I already know that you’re wicked into how I look — I was in your head once, you know, so don’t bother lying—”

“Obviously I’m attracted to you.” Buffy rolls her eyes. “We slept together.”

And there’s a little thrill that shoots up Faith’s chest at the reminder. At the recognition. The acknowledgment. Buffy’s never said those words, before.

She tries not to let the flush reach her cheeks. “But… was it _more_ than that? Honestly, B, I gotta… I gotta know if it was more than that. Because I’ve been killing myself over here these past coupla days, and I just… I need to know if I’m wrong. You tell me I’m wrong, and I promise, I’ll never bring it up again.” Buffy doesn’t say anything. She just keeps looking at Faith, long and unblinking. Maybe it’s the silence that gives her the courage to say what she says next. “But it… it doesn’t _feel_ like I’m wrong. You saved my life, even though you didn’t have to. I know you feel… I know you feel more than you let on. And I know I drive you up the wall, and I know more often than not you couldn’t care less whether or not I’m dead, but—”

“Stop it. Don’t say that.” Buffy flexes her fingers, and finally allows her arms to drop to her sides. There’s a chasm between them. It only spreads a few feet, but to Faith it feels like it could be miles. But the way Buffy’s looking at her is also making her feel claustrophobic. Makes sense she’d have to have both, right? Complete isolation and also immense overcrowding?

When Buffy speaks next it’s almost too quiet for Faith to hear. “You scared me last night, you know that? That’s why I was so angry with you. You just…” She shakes her head again. “I can’t do this without you. I didn’t want to admit it before… I don’t really want to admit it _now,_ but… I _really_ can’t do this without you. And it’s not just the slaying, either. I can’t…” a moment suspended, something inextricable wavering on a tipping point, before— “I can’t _be_ in this world without you. Do you— You’re the only person I know who… the only person who can _understand_. Without you… I’d lose my mind in here without you. And when I thought you were…” Buffy scrunches up her eyes and turns her head to the side, hiding her face behind a curtain of hair. She takes a breath, like she needs to settle her shoulders. Faith can’t look away. “So, yeah,” she says after a few moments, reaching a hand up to brush at her eyes, “I care if you die.”

There’s… what can she _say,_ to that? It’s everything she’s been desperate for and terrified of for… maybe for years. Maybe forever. Maybe since that very first day they met, all those years ago. What can she _say_ to that?

“Buffy…”

“I don’t know what I feel,” Buffy is quick to cut her thought short. It’s probably for the best, since Faith had no idea where she was going with that. “I don’t know what this is. I can’t… everything is so _confusing_ , and we can’t stop fighting and trying to hurt each other, and it’s like most of the time I don’t know if I want to hit you or kiss you. All I know is… when I thought you were going to die last night, I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared. It almost killed me. And I don’t know what that means, so please don’t ask me to explain. I just…” She takes a few steps forward and envelopes Faith in a deep, bone-crushing hug. Buffy, with her arms around Faith’s neck, squeezing her so tight it’s like she wants to physically push their two bodies into one. Faith embraces her back easily, slips her arms around Buffy’s waist like they were made to fit there.

They stand like that for a very long time.

“Please don’t die on me,” Buffy whispers into Faith’s neck. “Okay?”

And it’s stupid. It’s foolish of her, really, because what can she really promise? Faith has no more control over her own death than she does over the changing of the seasons. She’s gonna die someday, and it might be tomorrow or it might be ten years from now, but really, in her line of work, tomorrow seems _much_ more likely. So it’s crazy of Buffy to ask that of her. Worse still, it would be crazy of her to say something dumb like _I’ll never leave you_ or _I promise I won’t die before you_ because who is she kidding, pretending to have control over a thing like that?

But Faith, like an idiot, promises anyway. It’s the promise of _more to come_ and _I don’t want to hurt you;_ or maybe the promise of _we have more things we need to talk about_ and _you better not try to get out of this conversation by dying._ Either way, she promises. “I won’t die on you.”

____________________

The time it takes them to get from Buffy’s house to the demon’s lair passes in the blink of an eye. Faith takes a breath in Buffy’s house, and by the time she’s finished exhaling they’re right back to where they were last night: crouched low outside of a cave, weapons in-hand (with more supplies strapped to their backs — even though they _know_ they can’t kill him, the feel of cold steel in their hands does more than a little to comfort them), trying to moderate their breathing so as to not give away their position.

Tara’s spell seems to be holding strong, because as far as Faith can tell, Tall Dark and Nasty is skulking around somewhere within the dark tunnels and he hasn’t made a move towards them (if she closes her eyes she can feel him, smell him on the air; her body, even in its magically-handicapped state, was after all _built_ for finding and sensing demons in the darkness. It comes to her as naturally as breathing, every sense attuned to their otherworldly presence).

It’s comforting. Makes her feel a little better about all of this. At least he can’t lurk around in her mind and thoughts, this time ‘round.

“Remember,” Buffy mutters out of the corner of her mouth, “we have to disrupt his circle of fire. That’s priority numero uno. Then we-we get the talisman, bring it to the center of the circle, and destroy it.”

Faith’s eyebrows twitch down as she frowns. “I thought this was a grab-and-go mission. We have to break it here?”

Buffy nods. “I did some more reading while you were in the shower. The center of his circle is the epicenter of his power. We have to break the talisman inside of it, or else we might not get to go home.”

“And you’re just mentioning this _now_?”

“It doesn’t change anything about the mission. Just means we have to be a little faster.” Faith frowns. Buffy puts a hand over hers and squeezes. “It’s still the same mission. Get in, break the circle, get the talisman, break the talisman.” She squeezes her fingers once more. “We got this, okay?”

Faith sighs. “They can’t make anything easy for us, can they?”

“Course they can’t. Wouldn’t be as fun that way.”

“Okay,” Faith rolls her shoulders, “so: disrupt the circle, get the talisman, smash it inside the circle. Am I missing anything?”

Buffy swallows, her gaze frozen ahead of them. “Nope,” she says, “that covers it.”

Faith’s fingers flex around the handle of her knife. “You distract him, I try to fuck up his circle?”

“Works for me.”

“Alright then. On three?”

Buffy nods, and shifts so her knee is under her, mimicking a runner’s crouch. “One,” she starts.

“Two.”

“Three,” they say together. Feet press into soft soil as they launch themselves forward, shoulder-to-shoulder, heading into the darkness.

In the still of the cave, in the dark and the quiet, Faith’s ragged breathing sounds like a cacophony. That, combined with the sounds of their footsteps echoing off the walls and Faith’s blood rushing loudly through her ears, makes it seem like they’re certainly about to throw away any chance they ever had of sneaking up on the demon without him knowing. Everything sounds so _loud_ that Faith thinks he _has_ to be able to hear them coming a mile away. Luckily, she’s proven wrong, because as soon as they burst into the main chamber it becomes very obvious that their presence hasn’t been discovered.

Faith lets out a little breath, relieved at the victory, and allows herself a moment to survey the space they’ve only been in once before.

In the very center of the room is a ring of… not exactly _fire._ More like embers, glowing softly, barely-noticeable in a room exclusively lit by candlelight. It’s exactly as she remembered it, and looking at it closer now she’s surprised she hadn’t focused on it before. It seems so obviously _magic,_ so obviously _out-of-place_ (like it’s got a big neon sign above it, flashing and pointing and saying _‘Look at me I’m important!’_ ).

It takes the demon a few moments to notice them, but when he does he straightens immediately, hissing in what might be alarm or what might be fury. His skin ripples as he draws himself to his full height, turning on them and towering so tall his head almost brushes the low ceiling.

He stares at them for a few seconds, and Faith can hear… _something._ It’s not very distinct — almost sounds like someone shouting up at them from the bottom of a really deep well — and it takes a few beats for her to realize that it’s his telepathy, the words he usually implants into their minds bouncing back off of the spell Tara cast on them.

“Sorry, can’t hear you,” Buffy waves at her head in a vague circular motion. “Got something fogging up the brain, I think. If you want to speak to us, you’ll have to use your words.”

His face twists in an imitation of a snarl. Faith tries not to shudder. When he speaks, it’s with a series of hisses and clicks and groans that only passably manage to formulate themselves into something vaguely-word-shaped. “Haven’t you learned your lessssssson?” he hisses, his words garbled and clumsy.

“What can I say? I’m a slow learner.”

“You will die here, Sssssslayer.”

“You’re not the first thing to say that to me. You won’t be the last.”

The demon snarls. Faith inches her way towards the center of the room, trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible.

“I have no usssse for you.” There’s a sound similar to that of swords unsheathing (though it sounds more like metal tearing through skin). Faith only has eyes for the circle in the center of the room, and the way it seems to pulse brighter the nearer she draws to it. “You will both die here.”

“Not if we have anything to say about it. Now, Faith!” Buffy commands, and Faith leaps into action. She dives towards the circle, arm outstretched, reaching for the coals.

She blames the dampening spell for what happens next — blames the fact that their Slayer connection is weakened, is hindered, for why she doesn’t see his attack coming. She doesn’t see his talons plunge their way into Buffy’s stomach, doesn’t feel the sharp shredding of her skin and muscles, doesn’t feel the pain and the anguish burning through her side her hip her back her mind. Not until it’s too late.

Faith’s fist connects with the circle of simmering fire in under a second. She shoves her hand against the dirt ground, kicking up dust and loose soil. The knuckles of her left hand burn as they collide with the embers, but she ignores the feeling, instead pushing forward and punching a fist-sized hole right in the side of the ring.

There’s a short scream and Faith rolls over onto her back just in time to see the demon crumple to the ground, writhing in on himself. His body is contorted, and it may just be a trick of the light but he seems to be shrinking in front of her very eyes. His skin flickers, like it can’t quite settle on a color. She hears a snap, something she thinks might be bones cracking, but maybe it’s just rocks? It’s too difficult to tell in this lighting.

Faith feels triumphant for approximately four seconds before she catches the look on Buffy’s face — her skin pale, her eyes wide and surprised. Faith’s heart stutters to a stop in her chest. That’s not the face of someone who just witnessed a victory. “Buffy?” Faith asks, almost cautiously, pushing herself up onto her elbows. She’s still sprawled on the ground from her (kind-of-a-little-graceful, if she says so herself) dive. She’s covered in dirt, all up her back, sprinkled across her face. “Are you… okay?”

The demon is still screaming (an ear-piercing, unholy sort of sound that makes Faith’s mouth go dry; like ice picks driving into her brain; like her mouth is coated in chalk; like she just emerged from a ship after four months spent under the surface of the sea). He seems to slither across the floor, his body twisting and snapping and flopping as if he’s being tortured, as if there are a million invisible knives driving their way into his skin.

Faith hardly notices him. There’s something… wrong about Buffy. Something _off._ She looks pale and she’s still standing there, completely unmoving, her eyes stuck frozen on some invisible empty spot in front of her. Her shoulders are rising and falling quickly, like she’s out of breath, like she’s struggling to breathe.

Faith is on her feet in half a second. “Buffy?” she tries again, her voice tilting much closer to the _panic_ side of things, now. There’s something wrong. She can’t… what is Buffy _doing?_

“What the hell are you doing?” Buffy gasps at her as she approaches, panting and out of breath. She glances towards the demon, who has managed to put some significant distance between himself and the two of them. It probably wasn’t on purpose, but still. “He’s getting away. _Faith_ —”

“Shut up.” Faith’s eyes scan her body. Almost immediately she zeroes in on where Buffy’s clutching at her side. “You’re hurt.”

“Don’t stay… I’m _fine_ ,” she says, batting Faith’s reaching hand away. But she’s going a little paler in the face with every moment. And her hands are trembling. Her attempts to push Faith away are weak.

“He’s not going anywhere, look at him. So will you just let me see—?”

“If we aren’t careful he’s going to get _away_.”

“Oh, so _you’re_ allowed to let him get away to save _me_ but not the other way around?” Faith scoffs. “Of course, always gotta be the hero. God, you’re such a _hypocrite_ , B. You can’t ever let anyone else get— Buffy!” she exclaims in alarm as Buffy, without any warning at all, falls heavily to her knees. When Faith looks closer she can see that her shirt is already staining a deep crimson as blood seeps out from the wound under her fingers. “Buffy, hey, hey hold on.” Faith pushes Buffy’s hands away and something deep and sick rolls in her stomach. “Fuck, B. You’re… _fuck_.”

Buffy rocks forward precariously, and it’s only Faith’s guiding hand on her shoulder that brings her gently to the floor on her back, rather than smashing into the ground face-first. Her chest is heaving, up and down up and down. “You have to…” she gasps, “the talisman, Faith, it’ll… it-it’ll…” Her words drift to a stop.

Faith squeezes her shoulder as tightly as she dares. “You’re losing a lot of blood. You’re blacking out, B. C’mon… Stay with me.” Buffy looks more than a little woozy, and her eyes flutter shut. Something clenches in Faith’s stomach and she taps her on her cheek a few times. “Buffy!” she calls in what she hopes is only _mild_ panic. “Hey, stay awake. Stay awake. Stay with me.”

It looks like it takes every ounce of strength left in Buffy’s body just to force her eyes open again. “You’re gonna be mad at me,” she mutters then with no prompting.

Faith has more important things to worry about than Buffy’s _ego,_ right now. “I’m already pretty pissed, B,” she says as she drops her hands to Buffy’s injured side. She pushes down on the wound as hard as she can (stop the blood stop the bleeding stop the bleeding), but her fingers slip on the pooling blood and it takes her a few shaky moments to get a good purchase— “so whatever you’ve gotta say you should keep—”

“I called Giles. Before we left the house.”

“Why does that matter _now?_ ”

“I was wrong. About the talisman. It isn’t… not behind a glamor. I didn’t tell you. You’ve gotta…” Her mouth continues to move though the words are starting to blur together. There’s a trickle of blood dripping out of the corner of her lips. Faith presses harder against Buffy’s side, hoping that it’ll be enough to at least stem the bleeding. (There’s so much blood). “Get the…”

“I’m not doing anything while you’re _dying_ , idiot,” Faith snaps fiercely, her teeth clashing together hard enough to make her jaw ache. She can taste blood (or maybe she can only smell it?) and it’s making her sick.

“Won’t die.”

Faith growls, hands pressed tight to Buffy’s abdomen. They’re already sticky with blood. Too much blood. “Bet you’ve said that before.”

“You have to break— We may never… get another chance.”

“It won’t _matter_ if you’re _dead_ , Buffy.”

“I won’t die. Break it, and… we go back.”

“Buffy, if we don’t get you to a hospital—”

Buffy shakes her head. “No. I’m-I’m dead either way. There’s no coming back from… It’s too…” Faith stares down at her in horror. “You know it’s true.”

“I…”

“Smash it. It’s… only chance.”

“I don’t even know _what_ I’m supposed to smash, Buffy, you never told me—” Buffy’s hand falls on top of hers. Her ring, a glittering sparkle of a diamond on the best of days, is now speckled with blood. It shines a dark crimson, immediately attracting Faith’s eyes. “Oh,” she puffs out, soft and breathless.

Buffy’s eyes meet hers, and in that moment they both know, with absolute certainty, what the other is thinking. “Needed… it needed to be… be close. Something we wouldn’t s-see, or suspect.”

“Right under our noses the whole time. Safe.”

Buffy nods. “Safe.”

Faith stares unblinking down at the talisman wrapped around Buffy’s finger, the matching one on her own. Buffy’s fingers twitch towards the ring Faith still wears, but she can’t make herself move any more than that. Faith shakes her head and clenches her eyes shut tight. She can’t look down at the rings; she _won’t._ God, if they hadn’t been so _stupid_ and so _reckless,_ they might have seen… might have _noticed_ —

Faith opens her eyes and has to swallow around a tongue that feels much too large for her mouth. “I don’t want—” _to leave I don’t want to go back to where we were I don’t want things to go back to the way they were can’t we just stay here can’t we just make it work here things are good here things are nice here I can love you here I don’t want to go back._ “I don’t want you to die,” she croaks.

Buffy smiles, her lips pulled wide, blood staining the whites of her teeth. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I told you not to joke about that.”

Buffy maybe tries to laugh, but it comes out more of a strangled cough than anything. It sounds so painful that it makes Faith’s ribs ache sympathetically. She can’t feel Buffy — not right now, not unless she focuses — but even though she can’t feel her like she’s used to she can feel this pulsing at the back of her mind, like something swelling and then collapsing back on itself. It might be Buffy’s heart, or her lungs, or her life force itself — Faith refuses to consider any of the possibilities.

She’s running out of time.

She tugs the ring off of her finger and then, much more gently, twists Buffy’s ring off of her, as well. They’re already inside the disrupted circle — either by accident or by design, Buffy collapsed in the right direction — which means she can drop the rings down next to her without having to move her left hand from Buffy’s side, where it presses against the open wound, futilely attempting to keep the blood inside of her body.

The fingers of her right scramble against the ground, looking for purchase against something, _anything_ that can— _there_. Her hand closes around a rock, hefty and weighty and solid in her grip. She squeezes it, to check its strength, and is pleased when it doesn’t shatter against her palm. She looks down at the rings on the ground, and then at the rock in her hand, and then, finally, back to Buffy.

She knows she should probably ask, before she kisses Buffy. That’s the kind of thing the Good Slayer would do, she thinks. Good people ask before they kiss someone. And considering where they left things off, considering the fact that Buffy might be _dying_ on the ground in front of her and this might be the last thing she ever feels (can’t think about that _don’t think about that_ ), she knows she _really_ should check that she’s alright with Faith kissing her.

But she’s got a rock held high in her hand and she can feel the shimmering of energy off somewhere not that far away from them, which means their demon friend is probably making his way back into the land of the conscious-and-dangerous any second, now. But Buffy is pale on the ground beneath her, drenched in a pool of her own blood, the smell so metallic that it makes Faith sick to her stomach. She’s worried that this might not work and if it doesn’t work Buffy’s dead. It’s as simple as that.

She hoists the rock a little higher, hovering right above their rings, and right before she brings it smashing down on top of them she bends her head and presses her lips against Buffy’s — a short kiss, nothing overly fancy or romantic. Buffy has enough strength to press up against her (to return the kiss? To push her off? It’s too difficult for Faith to say) before Faith hears a scraping sound over near the entrance that means the demon’s back and their time is up and so she pulls away from Buffy, back far enough so she can look her in the eyes, and finally brings the rock down.

There’s a flash of light and the feeling of falling precariously backwards through space and then—

____________________

Faith wakes up on the cot in Buffy’s basement, all bruised skin and worn muscles, feeling raw and out-of-sorts. Her head reels and she feels a little dizzy; her arm is still smarting with the slashes from the night before. (Was it only the night before? Has this all been some sort of crazy elaborate fever dream? Did any of it even happen? Has she actually just made it all up in the ten-or-so hours she’s been asleep? She feels like she’s been asleep for days, but has she really?)

But then she hears Buffy cry out from upstairs, and it’s like she was never injured at all.

She leaps from her bed, throwing off the covers and practically vaulting across the floor. “Buffy!” she calls, bounding up the stairs three at a time. She pulls the door open so hard it snaps clean off its hinges, but she couldn’t care less. She drops it to the side without a second thought. All she can think about is finding Buffy, seeing her, making sure… making sure she—

The kitchen is packed, overrun with little baby Potentials and the Scooby gang, all crowded around where Buffy sits, slumped and a little groggy at the breakfast table. They’re all chattering nervously amongst themselves. Willow is on her knees next to Buffy, checking her pulse while Buffy seems to comes to, shaking her head and blinking bleary eyes like she’s waking from a deep slumber.

“Buffy, are you alright?” Willow asks in her best nurse’s voice. “Can you tell me what day it is? What year?”

“I…” Buffy shakes herself a little more vigorously. Faith worries her bottom lip between her teeth, teetering at the edge of the room, wondering if she should come in and check for herself that everything is okay or whether she should hang back and keep a low profile.

She’s back. That much is obvious. But, is Buffy back, too? Did she make everything up? Was she in that other dimension by herself? Was there ever anything to it at all? Did Buffy go through everything she went through, or is she alone in this, too, like she’s alone in everything else in her life?

“I don’t… I don’t know...” Buffy says. Willow and Giles exchange anxious looks. “What happened?”

“You just sort of… collapsed,” Xander answers, leaning across the table that’s piled high, heavy with breakfast foods and juices. “You were out for like four minutes. Scared the you-know-what out of us, too.”

“I… passed out? But where’s…” She looks around, then, and her eyes meet Faith’s for the first time.

Everything seems to stop.

She’s not sure how she knows — she’ll never be able to explain it for as long as she lives — but Faith can tell the second her eyes meet Buffy’s that she hadn’t just dreamt it all up. Wherever she’s just spent the last couple days of her life, Buffy’s been there, too. Their eyes meet and time seems to slow to a crawl and there’s something in her expression, something unreadable, something so complex and convoluted that Faith will never be able to describe it properly.

It’s the way Buffy looked at her, right before Faith smashed their matching rings to bits.

“ _Faith_.” Buffy breathes her name so softly that if Faith weren’t a super-powered super-being, she probably wouldn’t have heard it.

But she _does_ hear it.

And it makes up her mind for her. All the questions, all the anxiety, all the fear — gone, in the blink of an eye.

She strides forward, three long steps until she’s made it across the room. She stops directly in front of Buffy. The chatter is dying around them, and she can practically feel Xander and Giles shifting where they stand, turning their bodies to face her like she might be about to turn and attack all of them.

But she couldn’t care less.

She only has eyes for Buffy.

She reaches out a hand and Buffy takes it without her having to say anything. She pulls her up so that they’re standing, face to face and chest to chest.

It’s Buffy who finally closes the distance between them, claiming Faith’s lips in a kiss so _desperate_ that it’s _blatantly_ inappropriate for their current environment; so rough and bruising that Faith feels herself losing her balance. But Buffy’s strong hands at her hips keep her standing upright, keep her from toppling over, and she gasps into Buffy’s mouth even as a few people around them groan or cough uncomfortably or even shout startled “Hey!”s.

She doesn’t care. Can’t care about anything, except the feeling of Buffy in her arms and Buffy pressed against her. Can’t care about anything else, not a single thing in the world other than this, the _relief_ of this, of the knowledge that they _did it_ they’re _safe_ they’re _home_ and Buffy’s _kissing her_ like she _means it_ and—

A strong hand on her shoulder wrenches her backwards and she slips away from Buffy with barely any protest. When she turns she sees that it’s Spike who has a firm grip on her upper arm and he’s glaring between the pair of them. The whole kitchen is silent.

Giles clears his throat and says, rather meekly, “Would anyone like to fill me in on what’s going on?”

Buffy and Faith share a loaded look. Buffy bites her lip and, after a few tense moments, says, weakly, “It’s a _really_ long story.”

____________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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